THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  WINDOW  AT  THE 
WHITE  CAT 


THE  WINDOW  AT  THE 
WHITE   CAT 


THE  WORKS  OF 

MARY  ROBERTS 
RINEHART 


THE  WINDOW  AT  THE 
WHITE  CAT 


THE  REVIEW  OF   REVIEWS   COMPANY 

Publishiri  NEW  YORK 

PrRLllBBD    BI    ARRAKGBUENT    WITH    GEORGE    H.    DoRIN     COUP1NT. 


COPYRIGHT,    1910, 
BY  THB   BOBBS-MERRILL   COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


THE  WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE 

CAT, 

PS 

'-'     . 
CONTENTS 

CHAPTEE 

PAGH 

I    SENTIMENT  AND  CLUES       .       .       . 

9 

II    UNEASY  APPREHENSIONS 

•       23 

III    NINETY-EIGHT  PEARLS       .       .       . 

•       33 

IV    A  THIEF  IN  THE  NIGHT      ... 

.      48 

V    LITTLE  Miss  JANE 

•      59 

VI    A  FOUNTAIN  PEN        .... 

.      72 

VII    CONCERNING  MARGERY 

•      83 

VIII    Too  LATE       

07 

IX    ONLY  ONE  EYE  CLOSED 

.        103 

X    BREAKING  THE  NEWS    .... 

.     116 

XI    A  NIGHT  IN  THE  FLEMING  HOME 

.     134 

XII    MY  COMMISSION    

•     147 

XIII     SIZZLING  METAL    

•     159 

XIV    A  WALK  IN  THE  PARK 

.     172 

XV    FIND  THE  WOMAN       .... 

.     182 

XVI    ELEVEN  TWENTY-TWO  AGAIN 

.     192 

XVII    His  SECOND  WIFE        .... 

.     199 

XVIII    EDITH'S  COUSIN     

.     209 

XIX    BACK  TO  BELL  WOOD      .       .      > 

.     220 

XX    ASSOCIATION  OF  IDEAS 

•     233 

XXI    A  PROSCENIUM  Box                           :. 

.     246 

XXII    IN  THE  ROOM  OVER  THE  WAY     ..      ,.. 

.     256 

XXIII    A  Box  OF  CROWN  DERBY     .       .      > 

.     263 

XXIV    WARDROP'S  STORY         . 

•     273 

XXV    MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE       .       .      > 

281 

XXVI    LOVERS  AND  A  LETTER        ...      >;      >. 

,     292 

612586 


THE  WINDOW 
AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

CHAPTER  I 

SENTIMENT   AND   CLUES 

TN  my  criminal  work  anything  that  wears  skirts  is 
I  •••  a  lady,  until  the  law  proves  her  otherwise.  From 
the  frayed  and  slovenly  petticoats  of  the  woman 
who  owns  a  poultry  stand  in  the  market  and  who 
has  grown  wealthy  by  selling  chickens  at  twelve 
ounces  to  the  pound,  or  the  silk  sweep  of  Mamie 
Tracy,  whose  diamonds  have  been  stolen  down  on 
the  avenue,  or  the  staidly  respectable  black  and 
middle-aged  skirt  of  the  client  whose  husband  has 
found  an  affinity  partial  to  laces  and  fripperies,  and 
has  run  off  with  her — all  the  wearers  are  ladies,  and 
as  such  announced  by  Hawes.  In  fact,  he  carries 
it  to  excess.  He  speaks  of  his  wash  lady,  with  a 
husband  who  is  an  ash  merchant,  and  he  announced, 
one  day  in  some  excitement,  that  the  lady  who  had 
just  gone  out  had  appropriated  all  the  loose  change 
out  of  the  pocket  of  his  overcoat. 

So  when  Hawes  announced  a  lady,  I  took  my  feet 
off  my  desk,  put  down  the  brief  I  had  been  reading, 

9 


and  rose  perfunctorily.  With  my  first  glance  at  my 
visitor,  however,  I  threw  away  my  cigar,  and  I  have 
heard  since,  settled,  my  tie.  That  this  client  was 
different  was  borne  in  on  me  at  once  by  the  way  she 
entered  the  room.  She  had  poise  in  spite  of  em- 
barrassment, and  her  face  when  she  raised  her  veil 
was  white,  refined,  and  young. 

"I  did  not  send  in  my  name,"  she  said,  when  she 
saw  me  glancing  down  for  the  card  Hawes  usually 
puts  on  my  table.  "It  was  advice  I  wanted,  and  I — 
I  did  not  think  the  name  would  matter." 

She  was  more  composed,  I  think,  when  she  found 
me  considerably  older  than  herself.  I  saw  her  look- 
ing furtively  at  the  graying  places  over  my  ears.  I 
am  only  thirty-five,  as  far  as  that  goes,  but  my  fam- 
ily, although  it  keeps  its  hair,  turns  gray  early — a 
business  asset  but  a  social  handicap. 

"Won't  you  sit  down  ?"  I  asked,  pushing  out  a  chair, 
so  that  she  would  face  the  light,  while  I  remained 
in  shadow.  Every  doctor  and  every  lawyer  knows 
that  trick.  "As  far  as  the  name  goes,  perhaps  you 
would  better  tell  me  the  trouble  first.  Then,  if  I 
think  it  indispensable,  you  can  tell  me." 

She  acquiesced  to  this  and  sat  for  a  moment  silent, 
her  gaze  absently  on  the  windows  of  the  building 
across.  In  the  morning  light  my  first  impression 
was  verified.  Only  too  often  the  raising  of  a 
woman's  veil  in  my  office  reveals  the  ravages  of  tears, 
or  rouge,  or  dissipation.  My  new  client  turned  fear- 
lessly to  the  window  an  unlined  face,  with  a  clear  skin, 


SENTIMENT  AND  CLUES          11 

healthily  pale.  From  where  I  sat,  her  profile  was 
beautiful,  in  spite  of  its  drooping  suggestion  ot 
trouble;  her  first  embarrassment  gone,  she  had  for- 
gotten herself  and  was  intent  on  her  errand. 

"I  hardly  know  how  to  begin,"  she  said,  "but  sup- 
pose"— slowly — "suppose  that  a  man,  a  well-known 
man,  should  leave  home  without  warning,  not  taking 
any  clothes  except  those  he  wore,  and  saying  he  was 
coming  home  to  dinner,  and  he — he — " 

She  stopped  as  if  her  voice  failed  her. 

"And  he  does  not  come?"  I  prompted. 

She  nodded,  fumbling  for  her  handkerchief  in  her 
bag. 

"How  long  has  he  been  gone?"  I  asked.  I  had 
heard  exactly  the  same  thing  before,  but  to  leave  a 
woman  like  that,  hardly  more  than  a  girl,  and  lovely ! 

"Ten  days." 

"I  should  think  it  ought  to  be  looked  into,"  I  said 
decisively,  and  got  up.  Somehow  I  couldn't  sit 
quietly.  A  lawyer  who  is  worth  anything  is  always 
a  partisan,  I  suppose,  and  I  never  hear  of  a  man  de- 
serting his  wife  that  I  am  not  indignant,  the  virtuous 
scorn  of  the  unmarried  man,  perhaps.  "But  you  will 
have  to  tell  me  more  than  that.  Did  this  gentleman 
have  any  bad  habits?  That  is,  did  he — er — drink?" 

"Not  to  excess.  He  had  been  forbidden  anything 
of  that  sort  by  his  physician.  He  played  bridge  for 
money,  but  I — believe  he  was  rather  lucky."  She 
colored  uncomfortably. 

"Married,  I  suppose?"  I  asked  casually. 


12     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

"He  had  been.  His  wife  died  when  I — "  She 
stopped  and  bit  her  lip.  Then  it  was  not  her  hus- 
band, after  all!  Oddly  enough,  the  sun  came  out 
just  at  that  moment,  spilling  a  pool  of  sunlight  at 
her  feet,  on  the  dusty  rug  with  its  tobacco-bitten 
scars. 

"It  is  my  father,"  she  said  simply.  I  was  absurdly 
relieved. 

But  with  the  realization  that  I  had  not  a  case  of 
desertion  on  my  hands,  I  had  to  view  the  situation 
from  a  new  angle. 

"You  are  absolutely  at  a  loss  to  account  for  his 
disappearance  ?" 

"Absolutely." 

"You  have  had  no  word  from  him?" 

"None." 

"He  never  went  away  before  for  any  length  of 
time,  without  telling  you?" 

"No.  Never.  He  was  away  a  great  deal,  but  I 
always  knew  where  to  find  him."  Her  voice  broke 
again  and  her  chin  quivered.  I  thought  it  wise  to 
reassure  her. 

"Don't  let  us  worry  about  this  until  we  are  sure  it 
is  serious,"  I  said.  "Sometimes  the  things  that  seem 
most  mysterious  have  the  simplest  explanations.  He 
may  have  written  and  the  letter  have  miscarried  or — 
even  a  slight  accident  would  account — "  I  saw  I  was 
blundering;  she  grew  white  and  wide-eyed.  "But, 
of  course,  that's  unlikely  too.  He  would  have  papers 
to  identify  him." 


SENTIMENT  AND  CLUES         13 

"His  pockets  were  always  full  of  envelopes  and 
things  like  that,"  she  assented  eagerly. 

"Don't  you  think  I  ought  to  know  his  name?"  I 
asked.  "It  need  not  be  known  outside  of  the  office, 
and  this  is  a  sort  of  confessional  anyhow,  or  worse. 
People  tell  things  to  their  lawyer  that  they  wouldn't 
think  of  telling  the  priest." 

Her  color  was  slowly  coming  back,  and  she 
smiled. 

"My  name  is  Fleming,  Margery  Fleming,"  she  said 
after  a  second's  hesitation,  "and  my  father,  Mr.  Allan 
Fleming,  is  the  man.  Oh,  Mr.  Knox,  what  are  we 
going  to  do?  He  has  been  gone  for  more  than  a 
week!" 

No  wonder  she  had  wished  to  conceal  the  identity 
of  the  missing  man.  So  Allan  Fleming  was  lost !  A 
good  many  highly  respectable  citizens  would  hope 
that  he  might  never  be  found.  Fleming,  state  treas- 
urer, delightful  companion,  polished  gentleman  and 
successful  politician  of  the  criminal  type.  Outside 
in  the  corridor  the  office  boy  was  singing  under  his 
breath.  "Oh  once  there  was  a  miller,"  he  sang,  "who 
lived  in  a  mill."  It  brought  back  to  my  mind  in- 
stantly the  reform  meeting  at  the  city  hall  a  year  before, 
where  for  a  few  hours  we  had  blown  the  feeble  spark 
of  protest  against  machine  domination  to  a  flame. 
We  had  sung  a  song  to  that  very  tune,  and  with  this 
white-faced  girl  across  from  me,  its  words  came  back 
with  revolting  truth.  It  had  been  printed  and  cir- 
culated through  the  hall. 


14     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

"Oh,  once  there  was  a  capitol 

That  sat  on  a  hill, 
As  it's  too  big  to  steal  away 

It's  probably  there  still. 
The  ring's  hand  in  the  treasury 

And  Fleming  with  a  sack. 
They  take  it  out  in  wagon  loads 

And  never  bring  it  back." 

I  put  the  song  out  of  my  mind  with  a  shudder. 

"I  am  more  than  sorry,"  I  said.  I  was,  too;  what- 
ever he  may  have  been,  he  was  her  father.  "And  of 
course  there  are  a  number  of  reasons  why  this  ought 
not  to  be  known,  for  a  time  at  least.  After  all,  as 
I  say,  there  may  be  a  dozen  simple  explanations,  and 
— there  are  exigencies  in  politics — " 

"I  hate  politics!"  she  broke  in  suddenly.  "The 
very  name  makes  me  ill.  When  I  read  of  women 
wanting  to — to  vote  and  all  that,  I  wonder  if  they  know 
what  it  means  to  have  to  be  polite  to  dreadful  people, 
people  who  have  even  been  convicts,  and  all  that. 
Why,  our  last  butler  had  been  a  prize  fighter!"  She 
sat  upright  with  her  hands  on  the  arms  of  the  chair. 
"That's  another  thing,  too,  Mr.  Knox.  The  day  after 
father  went  away,  Carter  left.  And  he  has  not  come 
back." 

"Carter  was  the  butler?" 

"Yes." 

"A  white  man?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"And  he  left  without  giving  you  any  warning?" 


SENTIMENT  AND  CLUES         15 

"Yes.  He  served  luncheon  the  day  after  father 
went  away,  and  the  maids  say  he  went  away  im- 
mediately after.  He  was  not  there  that  evening  to 
serve  dinner,  but — he  came  back  late  that  night,  and 
got  into  the  house,  using  his  key  to  the  servants'  en- 
trance. He  slept  there,  the  maids  said,  but  he  was 
gone  before  the  servants  were  up  and  we  have  not 
seen  him  since." 

I  made  a  mental  note  of  the  butler. 

"We'll  go  back  to  Carter  again,"  I  said.  "Your 
father  has  not  been  ill,  has  he?  I  mean  recently." 

She  considered. 

"I  can  not  think  of  anything  except  that  he  had  a 
tooth  pulled."  She  was  quick  to  resent  my  smile. 
"Oh,  I  know  I'm  not  helping  you,"  she  exclaimed, 
"but  I  have  thought  over  everything  until  I  can  not 
think  any  more.  I  always  end  where  I  begin." 

"You  have  not  noticed  any  mental  symptoms — any 
lack  of  memory?" 

Her  eyes  filled. 

"He  forgot  my  birthday,  two  weeks  ago,"  she  said. 
"It  was  the  first  one  he  had  ever  forgotten,  in  nineteen 
of  them." 

Nineteen!  Nineteen  from  thirty-five  leaves  six- 
teen! 

"What  I  meant  was  this,"  I  explained.  "People 
sometimes  have  sudden  and  unaccountable  lapses  of 
memory  and  at  those  times  they  are  apt  to  stray  away 
from  home.  Has  your  father  been  worried  lately?" 

"He  has  not  been  himself  at  all.     He  has  been  ir- 


16     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

ritable,  even  to  me,  and  terrible  to  the  servants.  Only 
to  Carter — he  was  never  ugly  to  Carter.  But  I  do 
not  think  it  was  a  lapse  of  memory.  When  I  re- 
member how  he  looked  that  morning,  I  believe  that 
he  meant  then  to  go  away.  It  shows  how  he  had 
changed,  when  he  could  think  of  going  away  with- 
out a  word,  and  leaving  me  there  alone." 

"Then  you  have  no  brothers  or  sisters  ?" 

"None.     I  came  to  you — "  there  she  stopped. 

"Please  tell  me  how  you  happened  to  come  to  me," 
I  urged.  "I  think  you  know  that  I  am  both  honored 
and  pleased." 

"I  didn't  know  where  to  go,"  she  confessed,  "so 
I  took  the  telephone  directory,  the  classified  part 
under  'Attorneys/  and  after  I  shut  my  eyes,  I  put 
my  finger  haphazard  on  the  page.  It  pointed  to  your 
name." 

I  am  afraid  I  flushed  at  this,  but  it  was  a  whole- 
some douche.  In  a  moment  I  laughed. 

"We  will  take  it  as  an  omen,"  I  said,  "and  I  will 
do  all  that  I  can.  But  I  am  not  a  detective,  Miss 
Fleming.  Don't  you  think  we  ought  to  have  one?" 

"Not  the  police!"  she  shuddered.  "I  thought  you 
could  do  something  without  calling  in  a  detective." 

"Suppose  you  tell  me  what  happened  the  day  your 
father  left,  and  how  he  went  away.  Tell  me  the  little 
things  too.  They  may  be  straws  that  will  point  in 
a  certain  direction." 

"In  the  first  place,"  she  began,  "we  live  on  Mon- 
mouth  Avenue.  There  are  just  the  two  of  us,  and 


SENTIMENT  AND  CLUES          17 

the  servants :  a  cook,  two  housemaids,  a  laundress,  a 
butler  and  a  chauffeur.  My  father  spends  much  of 
his  time  at  the  capital,  and  in  the  last  two  years,  since 
my  old  governess  went  back  to  Germany,  at  those 
times  I  usually  go  to  mother's  sisters  at  Bellwood — 
Miss  Letitia  and  Miss  Jane  Maitland." 

I  nodded :  I  knew  the  Maitland  ladies  well.  I  had 
drawn  four  different  wills  for  Miss  Letitia  in  the  last 
year. 

"My  father  went  away  on  the  tenth  of  May.  You 
say  to  tell  you  all  about  his  going,  but  there  is  nothing 
to  tell.  We  have  a  machine,  but  it  was  being  repaired. 
Father  got  up  from  breakfast,  picked  up  his  hat  and 
walked  out  of  the  house.  He  was  irritated  at  a  letter 
he  had  read  at  the  table — " 

"Could  you  find  that  letter?"  I  asked  quickly. 

"He  took  it  with  him.  I  knew  he  was  disturbed, 
for  he  did  not  even  say  he  was  going.  He  took  a  car, 
and  I  thought  he  was  on  his  way  to  his  office.  He 
did  not  come  home  that  night  and  I  went  to  the  office 
the  next  morning.  The  stenographer  said  he  had  not 
been  there.  He  is  not  at  Plattsburg,  because  they 
have  been  trying  to  call  him  from  there  on  the  long 
distance  telephone  every  day." 

In  spite  of  her  candid  face  I  was  sure  she  was  hold- 
ing something  back. 

"Why  don't  you  tell  me  everything?"  I  asked. 
"You  may  be  keeping  back  the  one  essential  point." 

She  flushed.  Then  she  opened  her  pocket-book  and 
gave  me  a  slip  of  rough  paper.  On  it,  in  careless 


18    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

figures,  was  the  number  "eleven  twenty-two."     That 
was  all. 

"I  was  afraid  you  would  think  it  silly,"  she  said. 
"It  was  such  a  meaningless  thing.  You  see,  the  sec- 
ond night  after  father  left,  I  was  nervous  and  could 
not  sleep.  I  expected  him  home  at  any  time  and  I 
kept  listening  for  his  step  down-stairs.  About  three 
o'clock  I  was  sure  I  heard  some  one  in  the  room 
below  mine — there  was  a  creaking  as  if  the  person 
were  walking  carefully.  I  felt  relieved,  for  I  thought 
he  had  come  back.  But  I  did  not  hear  the  door  into 
his  bedroom  close,  and  I  got  more  and  more  wakeful. 
Finally  I  got  up  and  slipped  along  the  hall  to  his  room. 
The  door  was  open  a  few  inches  and  I  reached  in  and 
switched  on  the  electric  lights.  I  had  a  queer  feeling 
before  I  turned  on  the  lights  that  there  was  some  one 
standing  close  to  me,  but  the  room  was  empty,  and 
the  hall,  too." 

"And  the  paper?" 

"When  I  saw  the  room  was  empty  I  went  in.  The 
paper  had  been  pinned  to  a  pillow  on  the  bed.  At 
first  I  thought  it  had  been  dropped  or  had  blown 
there.  When  I  saw  the  pin  I  was  startled.  I  went 
back  to  my  room  and  rang  for  Annie,  the  second 
housemaid,  who  is  also  a  sort  of  personal  maid  of 
mine.  It  was  half-past  three  o'clock  when  Annie 
came  down.  I  took  her  into  father's  room  and 
showed  her  the  paper.  She  was  sure  it  was  not  there 
when  she  folded  back  the  bed  clothes  for  the 
at  nine  o'clock." 


SENTIMENT  AND  CLUES          19 

"Eleven  twenty-two,"  I  repeated.  "Twice  eleven 
is  twenty-two.  But  that  isn't  very  enlightening." 

"No,"  she  admitted.  "I  thought  it  might  be  a 
telephone  number,  and  I  called  up  all  the  eleven 
twenty-twos  in  the  city." 

In  spite  of  myself,  I  laughed,  and  after  a  moment 
she  smiled  in  sympathy. 

"We  are  not  brilliant,  certainly,"  I  said  at  last. 
"In  the  first  place,  Miss  Fleming,  if  I  thought  the 
thing  was  very  serious  I  would  not  laugh — but  no 
doubt  a  day  or  two  will  see  everything  straight. 
But,  to  go  back  to  this  eleven  twenty-two — did  you 
rouse  the  servants  and  have  the  house  searched?" 

"Yes,  Annie  said  Carter  had  come  back  and  she 
went  to  waken  him,  but  although  his  door  was  locked 
inside,  he  did  not  answer.  Annie  and  I  switched 
on  all  the  lights  on  the  lower  floor  from  the  top  of 
the  stairs.  Then  we  went  down  together  and  looked 
around.  Every  window  and  door  was  locked,  but 
in  father's  study,  on  the  first  floor,  two  drawers  of  his 
desk  were  standing  open.  And  in  the  library,  the 
little  compartment  in  my  writing-table,  where  I  keep 
my  house  money,  had  been  broken  open  and  the  money 
taken." 

"Nothing  else  was  gone?" 

"Nothing.  The  silver  on  the  sideboard  in  the  din- 
ing-room, plenty  of  valuable  things  in  the  cabinet  in 
the  drawing-room — nothing  was  disturbed." 

"It  might  have  been  Carter,"  I  reflected.  "Did 
he  know  where  you  kept  your  house  money?" 


20    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

"It  is  possible,  but  I  hardly  think  so.  Besides,  if 
he  was  going  to  steal,  there  were  so  many  more  valu- 
able things  in  the  house.  My  mother's  jewels  as 
well  as  my  own  were  in  my  dressing-room,  and  the 
door  was  not  locked." 

"They  were  not  disturbed?" 

She  hesitated. 

"They  had  been  disturbed,"  she  admitted.  "My 
grandmother  left  each  of  her  children  some  unstrung 
pearls.  They  were  a  hobby  with  her.  Aunt  Jane 
and  Aunt  Letitia  never  had  theirs  strung,  but  my 
mother's  were  made  into  different  things,  all  old- 
fashioned.  I  left  them  locked  in  a  drawer  in  my 
sitting-room,  where  I  have  always  kept  them.  The 
following  morning  the  drawer  was  unlocked  and 
partly  open,  but  nothing  was  missing." 

"All  your  jewelry  was  there?" 

"All  but  one  ring,  which  I  rarely  remove  from 
my  finger."  I  followed  her  eyes.  Under  her  glove 
was  the  outline  of  a  ring,  a  solitaire  stone. 

"Nineteen  from — "  I  shook  myself  together  and 
got  up. 

"It  does  not  sound  like  an  ordinary  burglary,"  I 
reflected.  "But  I  am  afraid  I  have  no  imagination. 
No  doubt  what  you  have  told  me  would  be  meat  and 
drink  to  a  person  with  an  analytical  turn  of  mind. 
I  can't  deduct.  Nineteen  from  thirty-five  leaves  six- 
teen, according  to  my  mental  process,  although  I  know 
men  who  could  make  the  difference  nothing." 


SENTIMENT  AND  CLUES          21 

I  believe  she  thought  I  was  a  little  mad,  for  her 
face  took  on  again  its  despairing  look. 

"We  must  find  him,  Mr.  Knox,"  she  insisted  as  she 
got  up.  "If  you  know  of  a  detective  that  you  can 
trust,  please  get  him.  But  you  can  understand  that 
the  unexplained  absence  of  the  state  treasurer  must  be 
kept  secret.  One  thing  I  am  sure  of :  he  is  being  kept 
away.  You  don't  know  what  enemies  he  has!  Men 
like  Mr.  Schwartz,  who  have  scruples,  no  principle." 

"Schwartz!"  I  repeated  in  surprise.  Henry 
Schwartz  was  the  boss  of  his  party  in  the  state;  the 
man  of  whom  one  of  his  adversaries  had  said,  with  the 
distinct  approval  of  the  voting  public,  that  he  was  so 
low  in  the  scale  of  humanity  that  it  would  require  a 
special  dispensation  of  Heaven  to  raise  him  to  the  level 
of  total  degradation.  But  he  and  Fleming  were  gen- 
erally supposed  to  be  captain  and  first  mate  of  the 
pirate  craft  that  passed  with  us  for  the  ship  of 
state. 

"Mr.  Schwartz  and  my  father  are  allies  politically," 
the  girl  explained  with  heightened  color,  "but  they 
are  not  friends.  My  father  is  a  gentleman." 

The  inference  I  allowed  to  pass  unnoticed,  and  as 
if  she  feared  she  had  said  too  much,  the  girl  rose. 
When  she  left,  a  few  minutes  later,  it  was  with  the 
promise  that  she  would  close  the  Monmouth  Ave- 
nue house  and  go  to  her  aunts  at  Bellwood,  at  once. 
For  myself,  I  pledged  a  thorough  search  for  her 
father,  and  began  it  by  watching  the  scarlet  wing  on 


22     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

her  hat  through  the  top  of  the  elevator  cage  until  it 
had  descended  out  of  sight. 

I  am  afraid  it  was  a  queer  hodgepodge  of  clues  and 
sentiment  that  I  poured  out  to  Hunter,  the  detective, 
when  he  came  up  late  that  afternoon. 

Hunter  was  quiet  when  I  finished  my  story. 

"They're  rotten  clear  through,"  he  reflected.  "This 
administration  is  worse  than  the  last,  and  it  was  a 
peach.  There  have  been  more  suicides  than  I  could 
count  on  my  two  hands,  in  the  last  ten  years.  I  warn 
you — you'd  be  better  out  of  this  mess." 

"What  do  you  think  about  the  eleven  twenty-two?" 
I  asked  as  he  got  up  and  buttoned  his  coat. 

"Well,  it  might  mean  almost  anything.  It  might 
be  that  many  dollars,  or  the  time  a  train  starts,  or  it 
might  be  the  eleventh  and  the  twenty-second  letters 
of  the  alphabet — k — v." 

"K— v!"  I  repeated.  "Why  that  would  be  the 
Latin  cave — beware." 

Hunter  smiled  cheerfully. 

"You'd  better  stick  to  the  law,  Mr.  Knox,"  he  said 
from  the  door.  "We  don't  use  Latin  in  the  detective 
business." 


CHAPTER  II 

UNEASY   APPREHENSIONS 

PLATTSBURG  was  not  the  name  of  the  capital, 
but  it  will  do  for  this  story.  The  state  doesn't 
matter  either.  You  may  take  your  choice,  like  the 
story  Mark  Twain  wrote,  with  all  kinds  of  weather 
at  the  beginning,  so  the  reader  could  take  his  pick. 

We  will  say  that  my  home  city  is  Manchester.  I 
live  with  my  married  brother,  his  wife  and  two  boys. 
Fred  is  older  than  I  am,  and  he  is  an  exceptional 
brother.  On  the  day  he  came  home  from  his  wed- 
ding trip,  I  went  down  with  my  traps  on  a  hansom, 
in  accordance  with  a  prearranged  schedule.  Fred  and 
Edith  met  me  inside  the  door. 

"Here's  your  latch-key,  Jack,"  Fred  said,  as  he 
shook  hands.  "Only  one  stipulation — remember  we 
are  strangers  in  the  vicinity  and  try  to  get  home  be- 
fore the  neighbors  are  up.  We  have  our  reputations 
to  think  of." 

"There  is  no  hour  for  breakfast,"  Edith  said,  as  she 
kissed  me.  "You  have  a  bath  of  your  own,  and  don't 
smoke  in  the  drawing-room." 

Fred  was  always  a  lucky  devil. 

I  had  been  there  now  for  six  years.     I  had  helped  to 

23 


24     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

raise  two  young  Knoxes — bully  youngsters,  too:  the 
oldest  one  could  use  boxing-gloves  when  he  was  four — 
and  the  finest  collie  pup  in  our  end  of  the  state.  I 
wanted  to  raise  other  things — the  boys  liked  pets — but 
Edith  was  like  all  women,  she  didn't  care  for  animals. 

I  had  a  rabbit-hutch  built  and  stocked  in  the  laun- 
dry, and  a  dove-cote  on  the  roof.  I  used  the  general 
bath,  and  gave  up  myt  tub  to  a  young  alligator  I  got 
in  Florida,  and  every  Sunday  the  youngsters  and  I 
had  a  great  time  trying  to  teach  it  to  do  tricks.  I 
have'  always  taken  it  a  little  hard  that  Edith  took  ad- 
vantage of  my  getting  the  measles  from  Billy,  to  clear 
out  every  animal  in  the  house.  She  broke  the  news 
to  me  gently,  the  day  the  rash  began  to  fade,  main- 
taining that,  having  lost  one  cook  through  the  alli- 
gator escaping  from  his  tub  and  being  mistaken,  in 
the  gloom  of  the  back-stairs,  for  a  rubber  boot,  and 
picked  up  under  the  same  misapprehension,  she  could 
not  risk  another  cook. 

On  the  day  that  Margery  Fleming  came  to  me  about 
her  father,  I  went  home  in  a  state  of  mixed  emotion. 
Dinner  was  not  a  quiet  meal :  Fred  and  I  talked  politics, 
generally,  and  as  Fred  was  on  one  side  and  I  on  the 
other  there  was  always  an  argument  on. 

"What  about  Fleming?"  I  asked  at  last,  when  Fred 
had  declared  that  in  these  days  of  corruption,  no  matter 
what  the  government  was,  he  was  "forninst"  it. 
"Hasn't  he  been  frightened  into  reform?" 

"Bad  egg,"  he  said,  jabbing  his  potato  as  if  it  had 


UNEASY  APPREHENSIONS        25 

been  a  politician,  "and  there's  no  way  to  improve  a 
bad  egg  except  to  hold  your  nose.  That's  what  the 
public  is  doing;  holding  its  nose." 

"Hasn't  he  a  daughter?"  I  asked  casually. 

"Yes — a  lovely  girl,  too,"  Edith  assented.  "It  is 
his  only  redeeming  quality." 

"Fleming  is  a  rascal,  daughter  or  no  daughter,"  Fred 
persisted.  "Ever  since  he  and  his  gang  got  poor 
Butler  into  trouble  arid  then  left  him  to  kill  himself 
as  the  only  way  out,  I  have  felt  that  there  was  some- 
thing coming  to  all  of  them — Hansen,  Schwartz  and 
the  rest.  I  saw  Fleming  on  the  street  to-day." 

"What!"  I  exclaimed,  almost  jumping  out  of  my 
chair. 

Fred  surveyed  me  quizzically  over  his  coffee  cup. 

"  'Hasn't  he  a  daughter !'  "  he  quoted.  "Yes,  I  saw 
him,  Jack,  this  very  day,  in  an  unromantic  four- 
wheeler,  and  he  was  swearing  at  a  policeman." 

"Where  was  it?" 

"Chestnut  and  Union.  His  cab  had  been  struck  by 
a  car,  and  badly  damaged,  but  the  gentleman  refused 
to  get  out.  No  doubt  you  could  get  the  details  from 
the  corner-man." 

"Look  here,  Fred,"  I  said  earnestly.  "Keep  that 
to  yourself,  will  you?  And  you  too,  Edith?  It's  a 
queer  story,  and  I'll  tell  you  sometime." 

As  we  left  the  dining-room  Edith  put  her  hand  on 
my  shoulder. 

"Don't  get  mixed  up  with  those  people,  Jack,"  she 


26     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

advised.  "Margery's  a  dear  girl,  but  her  father  practi- 
cally killed  Henry  Butler,  and  Henry  Butler  married 
my  cousin." 

"You  needn't  make  it  a  family  affair,"  I  protested. 
"I  have  only  seen  the  girl  once." 

But  Edith  smiled.  "I  know  what  I  know,"  she  said. 
"How  extravagant  of  you  to  send  Bobby  that  enor- 
mous hobby-horse !" 

"The  boy  has  to  learn  to  ride  sometime.  In  four 
years  he  can  have  a  pony,  and  I'm  going  to  see  that 
he  has  it.  He'll  be  eight  by  that  time." 

Edith  laughed. 

"In  four  years!"  she  said,  "Why,  in  four  years 
you'll — "  then  she  stopped. 

"I'll  what?"  I  demanded,  blocking  the  door  to  the 
library. 

"You'll  be  forty,  Jack,  and  it's  a  mighty  unattrac- 
tive man  who  gets  past  forty  without  being  sought  and 
won  by  some  woman.  You'll  be  buying — " 

"I  will  be  thirty-nine,"  I  said  with  dignity,  "and  as 
far  as  being  sought  and  won  goes,  I  am  so  overwhelmed 
by  Fred's  misery  that  I  don't  intend  to  marry  at  all. 
If  I  do — if  I  do — it  will  be  to  some  girl  who  turns 
and  runs  the  other  way  every  time  she  sees  me." 

"The  oldest  trick  in  the  box,"  Edith  scoffed. 
"What's  that  thing  Fred's  always  quoting:  'A  woman 
is  like  a  shadow ;  follow  her,  she  flies ;  fly  from  her,  she 
follows.'  " 

"Upon  my  word!"  I  said  indignantly.  "And  you 
are  a  woman !" 


UNEASY  APPREHENSIONS       27 

"I'm  different,"  she  retorted.  "I'm  only  a  wife  and 
mother." 

In  the  library  Fred  got  up  from  his  desk  and  gath- 
ered up  his  papers.  "I  can't  think  with  you  two  whis- 
pering there,"  he  said,  "I'm  going  to  the  den." 

As  he  slammed  the  door  into  his  workroom  Edith 
picked  up  her  skirts  and  scuttled  after  him. 

"How  dare  you  run  away  like  that?"  she  called. 

"You  promised  me — "     The  door  closed  behind  her. 

I  went  over  and  spoke  through  the  panels. 

"  'Follow  her,  she  flies ;  fly  from  her,  she  follows' 
— oh,  wife  and  mother!"  I  called. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  Edith,"  Fred's  voice  rose  ir- 
ritably. "If  you  and  Jack  are  going  to  talk  all  even- 
ing, go  and  sit  on  his  knee  and  let  me  alone.  The  way 
you  two  flirt  under  my  nose  is  a  scandal.  Do  you 
hear  that,  Jack?" 

"Good  night,  Edith,"  I  called,  "I  have  left  you  a 
kiss  on  the  upper  left  hand  panel  of  the  door.  And 
I  want  to  ask  you  one  more  question:  what  if  I  fly 
from  the  woman  and  she  doesn't  follow?" 

"Thank  your  lucky  stars,"  Fred  called  in  a  muffled 
voice,  and  I  left  them  to  themselves. 

I  had  some  work  to  do  at  the  office,  work  that  the 
interview  with  Hunter  had  interrupted,  and  half  past 
eight  that  night  found  me  at  my  desk.  But  my  mind 
strayed  from  the  papers  before  me.  After  a  useless 
effort  to  concentrate,  I  gave  it  up  as  useless,  and  by  ten 
o'clock  I  was  on  the  street  again,  my  evening  wasted, 
the  papers  in  the  libel  case  of  the  Star  against  the  Eagle 


28    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

untouched  on  my  desk,  and  I  the  victim  of  an  uneasy 
apprehension  that  took  me,  almost  without  volition,  to 
the  neighborhood  of  the  Fleming  house  on  Monmouth 
Avenue.  For  it  had  occurred  to  me  that  Miss  Flem- 
ing might  not  have  left  the  house  that  day  as  she  had 
promised,  might  still  be  there,  liable  to  another  in- 
trusion by  the  mysterious  individual  who  had  a  key  to 
the  house. 

It  was  a  relief,  consequently,  when  I  reached  its 
corner,  to  find  no  lights  in  the  building.  The  girl  had 
kept  her  word.  Assured  of  that,  I  looked  at  the  house 
curiously.  It  was  one  of  the  largest  in  the  city,  not 
wide,  but  running  far  back  along  the  side  street;  a 
small  yard  with  a  low  iron  fence  and  a  garage,  com- 
pleted the  property.  The  street  lights  left  the  back  of 
the  house  in  shadow,  and  as  I  stopped  in  the  shelter  of 
the  garage,  I  was  positive  that  I  heard  some  one  work- 
ing with  a  rear  window  of  the  empty  house.  A 
moment  later  the  sounds  ceased  and  muffled  footsteps 
came  down  the  cement  walk.  The  intruder  made  no 
attempt  to  open  the  iron  gate;  against  the  light  I  saw 
him  put  a  leg  over  the  low  fence,  follow  it  up  with  the 
other,  and  start  up  the  street,  still  with  peculiar  noise- 
lessness  of  stride.  He  was  a  short,  heavy-shouldered 
fellow  in  a  cap,  and  his  silhouette  showed  a  prodigious 
length  of  arm. 

I  followed,  I  don't  mind  saying  in  some  excitement. 
I  had  a  vision  of  grabbing  him  from  behind  and  lead- 
ing him — or  pushing  him,  under  the  circumstances,  in 


UNEASY  APPREHENSIONS       29 

triumph  to  the  police  station,  and  another  mental  pic- 
ture, not  so  pleasant,  of  being  found  on  the  pavement 
by  some  passer-by,  with  a  small  punctuation  mark  end- 
ing my  sentence  of  life.  But  I  was  not  apprehensive. 
I  even  remember  wondering  humorously  if  I  should 
overtake  him  and  press  the  cold  end  of  my  silver 
mounted  fountain  pen  into  the  nape  of  his  neck,  if  he 
would  throw  up  his  hands  and  surrender.  I  had  read 
somewhere  of  a  burglar  held  up  in  a  similar  way  with] 
a  shoe-horn. 

Our  pace  was  easy.  Once  the  man  just  ahead 
stopped  and  lighted  a  cigarette,  and  the  odor  of  a 
very  fair  Turkish  tobacco  came  back  to  me.  He 
glanced  back  over  his  shoulder  at  me  and  went  on  with- 
out quickening  his  pace.  We  met  no  policemen,  and 
after  perhaps  five  minutes  walking,  when  the  strain 
was  growing  tense,  my  gentleman  of  the  rubber-soled 
shoes  swung  abruptly  to  the  left,  and — entered  the 
police  station! 

\  had  occasion  to  see  Davidson  many  times  after 
that,  during  the  strange  development  of  the  Fleming 
case ;  I  had  the  peculiar  experience  later  of  having  him 
follow  me  as  I  had  trailed  him  that  night,  and  I  had 
occasion  once  to  test  the  strength  of  his  long  arms 
when  he  helped  to  thrust  me  through  the  transom  at 
the  White  Cat,  but  I  never  met  him  without  a  recur- 
rence of  the  sheepish  feeling  with  which  I  watched  him 
swagger  up  to  the  night  sergeant  and  fall  into  easy 
conversation  with  the  man  behind  the  desk.  Stand- 


30    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

ing  in  the  glare  from  the  open  window,  I  had  much 
the  lost  pride  and  self  contempt  of  a  wet  cat  sitting 
in  the  sun. 

Two  or  three  roundsmen  were  sitting  against  the 
wall,  lazily,  helmets  off  and  coats  open  against  the 
warmth  of  the  early  spring  night.  In  a  back  room 
others  were  playing  checkers  and  disputing  noisily. 
Davidson's  voice  came  distinctly  through  the  open 
windows. 

"The  house  is  closed,"  he  reported.  "But  one  of 
the  basement  windows  isn't  shuttered  and  the  lock  is 
bad.  I  couldn't  find  Shields.  He'd  better  keep  an  eye 
on  it."  He  stopped  and  fished  in  his  pockets  with  a 
grin.  "This  was  tied  to  the  knob  of  the  kitchen  door," 
he  said,  raising  his  voice  for  the  benefit  of  the  room,, 
and  holding  aloft  a  piece  of  paper.  "For  Shields!" 
he  explained,  "and  signed  'Delia.' ' 

The  men  gathered  around  him,  even  the  sergeant 
got  up  and  leaned  forward,  his  elbows  on  his  desk. 

"Read  it,"  he  said  lazily.  "Shields  has  got  a  wife, 
and  her  name  ain't  Delia." 

"Dear  Tom,"  Davidson  read,  in  a  mincing  falsetto, 
"We  are  closing  up  unexpected,  so  I  won't  be  here  to- 
night. I  am  going  to  Mamie  Brennan's  and  if  you 
want  to  talk  to  me  you  can  get  me  by  calling  up  Ander- 
son's drug-store.  The  clerk  is  a  gentleman  friend  of 
mine.  Mr.  Carter,  the  butler,  told  me  before  he  left 
he  would  get  me  a  place  as  parlor  maid,  so  I'll  have 
another  situation  soon.  Delia." 

The  sergeant  scowled.     "I'm  goin'  to  talk  to  Tom," 


UNEASY  APPREHENSIONS       31 

he  said,  reaching  out  for  the  note.  "He's  got  a  nice 
family,  and  things  like  that're  bad  for  the  force." 

I  lighted  the  cigar,  which  had  been  my  excuse  for 
loitering  on  the  pavement,  and  went  on.  It  sounded 
involved  for  a  novice,  but  if  I  could  find  Anderson's 
drug-store  I  could  find  Mamie  Brennan;  through 
Mamie  Brennan  I  would  get  Delia,  and  through  Delia 
I  might  find  Carter.  I  was  vague  from  that  point,  but 
what  Miss  Fleming  had  said  of  Carter  had  made  me 
suspicious  of  him.  Under  an  arc  light  I  made  the  first 
note  in  my  new  business  of  man-hunter  and  it  was 
something  like  this: 

Anderson's  drug-store. 

Ask  for  Mamie  Brennan. 

Find  Delia. 

Advise  Delia  that  a  policeman  with  a  family  is  a 
bad  bet. 

Locate  Carter. 

It  was  late  when  I  reached  the  corner  of  Chestnut 
and  Union  Streets,  where  Fred  had  said  Allan  Flem- 
ing had  come  to  grief  in  a  cab.  But  the  corner-man 
had  gone,  and  the  night  man  on  the  beat  knew  nothing, 
of  course,  of  any  particular  collision. 

"There's  plinty  of  'em  every  day  at  this  corner," 
he  said  cheerfully.  "The  department  sinds  a  wagon 
here  every  night  to  gather  up  the  pieces,  autymobiles 
mainly.  That  trolley  pole  over  there  has  been  sliced 
off  clean  three  times  in  the  last  month.  They  say  a 
fellow  ain't  a  graduate  of  the  autymobile  school  till 
he  can  go  around  it  on  the  sidewalk  without  hittin'  it !" 


32    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

I  left  him  looking  reminiscently  at  the  pole,  and 
went  home  to  bed.  I  had  made  no  headway,  I  had  lost 
conceit  with  myself  and  a  day  and  evening  at  the 
office,  and  I  had  gained  the  certainty  that  Margery 
Fleming  was  safe  in  Bell  wood  and  the  uncertain  ad- 
dress of  a  servant  who  might  know  something  about 
Mr.  Fleming. 

I  was  still  awake  at  one  o'clock  and  I  got  up 
impatiently  and  consulted  the  telephone  directory. 
There  were  twelve  Andersons  in  the  city  who  con- 
ducted drug-stores. 

When  I  finally  went  to  sleep,  I  dreamed  that  I  was 
driving  Margery  Fleming  along  a  street  in  a  broken 
taxicab,  and  that  all  the  buildings  were  pharmacies 
and  numbered  eleven  twenty-two. 


CHAPTER  III 

NINETY-EIGHT   PEARLS 

AFTER  such  a  night  I  slept  late.  Edith  still  kept 
her  honeymoon  promise  of  no  breakfast  hour 
and  she  had  gone  out  with  Fred  when  I  came  down- 
stairs. 

I  have  a  great  admiration  for  Edith,  for  her  toler- 
ance with  my  uncertain  hours,  for  her  cheery  break- 
fast-room, and  the  smiling  good  nature  of  the  serv- 
ants she  engages.  I  have  a  theory  that,  show  me  a 
sullen  servant  and  I  will  show  you  a  sullen  mistress, 
although  Edith  herself  disclaims  all  responsibility  and 
lays  credit  for  the  smile  with  which  Katie  brings  in 
my  eggs  and  coffee,  to  largess  on  my  part.  Be  that  as 
it  may,  Katie  is  a  smiling  and  personable  young 
woman,  and  I  am  convinced  that  had  she  picked  up 
the  alligator  on  the  back-stairs  and  lost  part  of  the 
end  of  her  thumb,  she  would  have  told  Edith  that  she 
cut  it  off  with  the  bread  knife,  and  thus  haye  saved 
to  us  Bessie  the  Beloved  and  her  fascinating  trick  of 
taking  the  end  of  her  tail  in  her  mouth  and  spinning. 

On  that  particular  morning,  Katie  also  brought  me 
a  letter,  and  I  recognized  the  cramped  and  rather  un- 
certain writing  of  Miss  Jane  Maitland. 

33 


34     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

"DEAR  MR.  KNOX: 

"Sister  Letitia  wishes  me  to  ask  you  if  you  can  dine 
with  us  to-night,  informally.  She  has  changed  her  mind 
in  regard  to  the  Colored  Orphans'  Home,  and  would  like 
to  consult  you  about  it. 

"Very  truly  yours, 

"SUSAN  JANE  MAITLAND." 

It  was  a  very  commonplace  note:  I  had  had  one 
like  it  after  every  board-meeting  of  the  orphans'  home, 
Miss  Maitland  being  on  principle  an  aggressive  minor- 
ity. Also,  having  considerable  mind,  changing  it  be- 
came almost  as  ponderous  an  operation  as  moving  a 
barn,  although  not  nearly  so  stable. 

(Fred  accuses  me  here  of  a  very  bad  pun,  and  re- 
minds me,  quite  undeservedly,  that  the  pun  is  the 
lowest  form  of  humor.) 

I  came  across-  Miss  Jane's  letter  the  other  day,  when 
I  was  gathering  the  material  for  this  narrative,  and  I 
sat  for  a  time  with  it  in  my  hand  thinking  over  again 
the  chain  of  events  in  which  it  had  been  the  first  link, 
a  series  of  strange  happenings  that  began  with  my  ac- 
ceptance of  the  invitation,  and  that  led  through  ways 
as  dark  and  tricks  as  vain  as  Bret  Harte's  Heathen 
Chinee  ever  dreamed  of,  to  the  final  scene  at  the  White 
Cat.  With  the  letter  I  had  filed  away  a  half  dozen 
articles  and  I  ranged  them  all  on  the  desk  in  front  of 
me :  the  letter,  the  bit  of  paper  with  eleven  twenty-two 
on  it,  that  Margery  gave  me  the  first  time  I  saw  her; 
a  note-book  filled  with  jerky  characters  that  looked 
like  Arabic  and  were  newspaper  shorthand;  a  rail- 


NINETY-EIGHT  PEARLS          35 

road  schedule,  a  bullet,  the  latter  slightly  flattened; 
a  cube-shaped  piece  of  chalk  which  I  put  back  in  its 
box  with  a  shudder,  and  labeled  'poison,'  and  a  small 
gold  buckle  from  a  slipper,  which  I — at  which  I  did 
not  shudder. 

I  did  not  need  to  make  the  climaxes  of  my  story. 
They  lay  before  me. 

I  walked  to  the  office  that  morning,  and  on  the 
way  I  found  and  interviewed  the  corner-man  at  Chest- 
nut and  Union.  But  he  was  of  small  assistance.  He 
remembered  the  incident,  but  the  gentleman  in  the 
taxicab  had  not  been  hurt  and  refused  to  give  his 
name,  saying  he  was  merely  passing  through  the  city 
from  one  railroad  station  to  another,  and  did  not 
wish  any  notoriety. 

At  eleven  o'clock  Hunter  called  up;  he  said  he  was 
going  after  the  affair  himself,  but  that  it  was  hard 
to  stick  a  dip  net  into  the  political  puddle  without 
pulling  out  a  lot  more  than  you  went  after,  or  than  it 
was  healthy  to  get.  He  was  inclined  to  be  facetious, 
and  wanted  to  know  if  I  had  come  across  any  more 
k.  v's.  Whereupon  I  put  away  the  notes  I  had  made 
about  Delia-  and  Mamie  Brennan  and  I  heard  him 
chuckle  as  I  rang  off. 

I  went  to  Bellwood  that  evening.  It  was  a  subur- 
ban town  a  dozen  miles  from  the  city,  with  a  pictur- 
esque siation,  surrounded  by  lawns  and  cement  walks. 
Street-cars  had  so  far  failed  to  spoil  its  tree-bordered 
streets,  and  it  was  exclusive  to  the  point  of  stagnation. 
The  Maitland  place  was  at  the  head  of  the  main  street, 


36    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

which  had  at  one  time  been  its  drive.  Miss  Letida, 
who  was  seventy,  had  had  sufficient  commercial  in- 
stinct, some  years  before,  to  cut  her  ancestral  acres 
— their  ancestral  acres,  although  Miss  Jane  hardly 
counted — into  building  lots,  except  perhaps  an  acre 
which  surrounded  the  house.  Thus,  the  Maitland 
ladies  were  reputed  to  be  extremely  wealthy.  And 
as  they  never  spent  any  money,  no  doubt  they  were. 

The  homestead  as  I  knew  it,  was  one  of  impec- 
cable housekeeping  and  unmitigated  gloom.  There 
was  a  chill  that  rushed  from  the  old-fashioned  center 
hall  to  greet  the  new-comer  on  the  porch,  and  that 
seemed  to  freeze  up  whatever  in  him  was  spontaneous 
and  cheerful. 

I  had  taken  dinner  at  Bellwood  before,  and  the 
memory  was  not  hilarious.  Miss  Letitia  was  deaf, 
but  chose  to  ignore  the  fact.  With  superb  indifference 
she  would  break  into  the  conversation  with  some 
wholly  alien  remark  that  necessitated  a  reassembling 
of  one's  ideas,  making  the  meal  a  series  of  mental 
gymnastics.  Miss  Jane,  through  long  practice,  and 
because  she  only  skimmed  the  surface  of  conversation, 
took  her  cerebral  flights  easily,  but  I  am  more  un- 
wieldy of  mind. 

Nor  was  Miss  Letitia's  dominance  wholly  conver- 
sational. Her  sister  Jane  was  her  creature,  alter- 
nately snubbed  and  bullied.  To  Miss  Letitia,  Jane,  in 
spite  of  her  sixty-five  years,  was  still  a  child,  and 
sometimes  a  bad  one.  Indeed  many  a  child  of  ten  is 
more  sophisticated.  Miss  Letitia  gare  her  expurgated 


NINETY-EIGHT  PEARLS          37 

books  to  read,  and  forbade  her  to  read  divorce  court 
proceedings  in  the  newspapers.  Once,  a  recreant 
housemaid  presenting  the  establishment  with  a  healthy 
male  infant,  Jane  was  sent  to  the  country  for  a  month, 
and  was  only  brought  back  when  the  house  had  been 
fumigated  throughout. 

Poor  Miss  Jane!  She  met  me  with  fluttering  cor- 
diality in  the  hall  that  night,  safe  in  being  herself 
for  once,  with  the  knowledge  that  Miss  Letitia  always 
received  me  from  a  throne-like  horsehair  sofa  in  the 
back  parlor.  She  wore  a  new  lace  cap,  and  was 
twitteringly  excited. 

"Our  niece  is  here,"  she  explained,  as  I  took  off 
my  coat — everything  was  "ours"  with  Jane;  "mine" 
with  Letitia — "and  we  are  having  an  ice  at  dinner. 
Please  say  that  ices  are  not  injurious,  Mr.  Knox. 
My  sister  is  so  opposed  to  them  and  I  had  to  beg  for 
this." 

"On  the  contrary,  the  doctors  have  ordered  ices  for 
my  young  nephews,"  I  said  gravely,  "and  I  dote  on 
them  myself." 

Miss  Jane  beamed.  Indeed,  there  was  something 
almost  unnaturally  gay  about  the  little  old  lady  all 
that  evening.  Perhaps  it  was  the  new  lace  cap. 
Later,  I  tried  to  analyze  her  manner,  to  recall  exactly 
what  she  had  said,  to  remember  anything  that  could 
possibly  help.  But  I  could  find  no  clue  to  what 
followed. 

Miss  Letitia  received  me  as  usual,  in  the  back  par- 
lor. Miss  Fleming  was  there  also,  sewing  by  a  win- 


38     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

dow,  and  in  her  straight  white  dress  with  her  hair 
drawn  back  and  braided  around  her  head,  she  looked 
even  younger  than  before.  There  was  no  time  for 
conversation.  Miss  Letitia  launched  at  once  into  the 
extravagance  of  both  molasses  and  butter  on  the 
colored  orphans'  bread  and  after  a  glance  at  me,  and 
a  quick  comprehension  from  my  face  that  I  had  no 
news  for  her,  the  girl  at  the  window  bent  over  her  sew- 
ing again. 

"Molasses  breeds  worms,"  Miss  Letitia  said  de- 
cisively. "So  does  pork.  And  yet  those  children 
think  Heaven  means  ham  and  molasses  three  times  a 
day." 

"You  have  had  no  news  at  all  ?"  Miss  Fleming  said 
cautiously,  her  head  bent  over  her  work. 

"None,"  I  returned,  under  cover  of  the  table  linen 
to  which  Miss  Letitia's  mind  had  veered.  "I  have  a 
good  man  working  on  it."  As  she  glanced  at  me 
questioningly,  "It  needed  a  detective,  Miss  Fleming." 
Evidently  another  day  without  news  had  lessened  her 
distrust  of  the  police,  for  she  nodded  acquiescence 
and  went  on  with  her  sewing.  Miss  Letitia's  mo- 
notonous monologue  went  on,  and  I  gave  it  such  at- 
tention as  I  might.  For  the  lamps  had  been  lighted, 
and  with  every  movement  of  the  girl  across,  I  could 
see  the  gleaming  of  a  diamond  on  her  engagement 
finger. 

"IJ:  I  didn't  watch  her,  Jane  would  ruin  them," 
said  Miss  Letitia.  "She  gives  'em  apples  when  they 


NINETY-EIGHT  PEARLS          39 

keep  their  faces  clean,  and  the  bills  for  soap  have 
gone  up  double.  Soap  once  a  day's  enough  for  a 
colored  child.  Do  you  smell  anything  burning, 
Knox?" 

I  sniffed  and  lied,  whereupon  Miss  Letitia  swept 
her  black  silk,  her  colored  orphans  and  her  majestic 
presence  out  of  the  room.  As  the  door  closed,  Miss 
Fleming  put  down  her  sewing  and  rose.  For  the 
first  time  I  saw  how  weary  she  looked. 

"I  do  not  dare  to  tell  them,  Mr.  Knox,"  she  said. 
"They  are  old,  and  they  hate  him  anyhow.  I  couldn't 
sleep  last  night.  Suppose  he  should  have  gone  back, 
and  found  the  house  closed!" 

"He  would  telephone  here  at  once,  wouldn't  he?" 
I  suggested. 

"I  suppose  so,  yes."  She  took  up  her  sewing  from 
the  chair  with  a  sigh.  "But  I'm  afraid  he  won't 
come — not  soon.  I  have  hemmed  tea  towels  for  Aunt 
Letitia  to-day  until  I  am  frantic,  and  all  day  I  have 
been  wondering  over  something  you  said  yesterday. 
You  said,  you  remember,  that  you  were  not  a  detective, 
that  some  men  could  take  nineteen  from  thirty-five 
and  leave  nothing.  What  did  you  mean  ?" 

I  was  speechless  for  a  moment. 

"The  fact  is — I — you  see,"  I  blundered,  "it  was 
a — merely  a  figure  of  speech,  a — speech  of  figures  is 
more  accurate, — "  And  then  dinner  was  announced 
and  I  was  saved.  But  although  she  said  little  or  noth- 
ing during  the  meal,  I  caught  her  looking  across  at  me 


40    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

once  or  twice  in  a  bewildered,  puzzled  fashion.  I 
could  fairly  see  her  revolving  my  detestable  figures 
in  her  mind. 

Miss  Letitia  presided  over  the  table  in  garrulous 
majesty.  The  two  old  ladies  picked  at  their  food,  and 
Miss  Jane  had  a  spot  of  pink  in  each  withered  cheek. 
Margery  Fleming  made  a  brave  pretense,  but  left 
her  plate  almost  untouched.  As  for  me,  I  ate  a  sub- 
stantial masculine  meal  and  half  apologized  for  my 
appetite,  but  Letitia  did  not  hear.  She  tore  the  board 
of  managers  to  shreds  with  the  roast,  and  denounced 
them  with  the  salad.  But  Jane  was  all  anxious 
hospitality. 

"Please  do  eat  your  dinner,"  she  whispered.  "I 
made  the  salad  myself.  And  I  know  what  it  takes 
to  keep  a  big  man  going.  Harry  eats  more  than 
Letitia  and  I  together.  Doesn't  he,  Margery?" 

"Harry?"  I  asked. 

"Mrs.  Stevens  is  an  unmitigated  fool.  I  said  if 
they  elected  her  president  I'd  not  leave  a  penny  to  the 
home.  That's  why  I  sent  for  you,  Knox."  And  to 
the  maid,  "Tell  Heppie  to  wash  those  cups  in  luke- 
warm water.  They're  the  best  ones.  And  not  to 
drink  her  coffee  out  of  them.  She  let  her  teeth  slip 
and  bit  a  piece  out  of  one  the  last  time." 

Miss  Jane  leaned  forward  to  me  after  a  smiling 
glance  at  her  niece  across. 

"Harry  Wardrop,  a  cousin's  son,  and — "  she  patted 
Margery's  hand  with  its  ring — "soon  to  be  something 
closer." 


NINETY-EIGHT  PEARLS          41 

The  girl's  face  colored,  but  she  returned  Miss  Jane's 
gentle  pressure. 

"They  put  up  an  iron  fence,"  Miss  Letitia  reverted 
somberly  to  her  grievance,  "when  a  wooden  one  would 
have  done.  It  was  extravagance,  ruinous  extrava- 
gance." 

"Harry  stays  with  us  when  he  is  in  Manchester," 
Miss  Jane  went  on,  nodding  brightly  across  at  Le- 
titia as  if  she,  too,  were  damning  the  executive  board. 
"Lately,  he  has  been  almost  all  the  time  in  Plattsburg. 
He  is  secretary  to  Margery's  father.  It  is  a  position 
of  considerable  responsibility,  and  we  are  very  proud 
of  him." 

I  had  expected  something  of  the  sort,  but  the  re- 
mainder of  the  meal  had  somehow  lost  its  savor. 
.There  was  a  lull  in  the  conversation  while  dessert 
was  being  brought  in.  Miss  Jane  sat  quivering, 
watching  her  sister's  face  for  signs  of  trouble;  the 
latter  had  subsided  into  muttered  grumbling,  and  Miss 
Fleming  sat,  one  hand  on  the  table,  staring  absently 
at  her  engagement  ring. 

"You  look  like  a  fool  in  that  cap,  Jane,"  volun- 
teered Letitia,  while  the  plates  were  being  brought  in. 
"What's  for  dessert?" 

"Ice-cream,"  called  Miss  Jane,  over  the  table. 

"Well,  you  needn't,"  snapped  Letitia,  "I  can  hear 
you  well  enough.  You  told  me  it  was  junket." 

"I  said  ice-cream,  and  you  said  it  would  be  all 
right,"  poor  Jane  shrieked.  "If  you  drink  a  cup  of 
hot  water  after  it,  it  won't  hurt  you." 


"Fiddle,"  Letitia  snapped  unpleasantly.  "I'm  not 
going  to  freeze  my  stomach  and  then  thaw  it  out  like 
a  drain  pipe.  Tell  Heppie  to  put  my  ice-cream  on  the 
stove." 

So  we  waited  until  Miss  Letitia's  had  been  heated, 
and  was  brought  in,  sicklied  over  with  pale  hues,  not, 
of  thought,  but  of  confectioners'  dyes.  Miss  Letitia 
ate  it  resignedly.  "Like  as  not  I'll  break  out,  I  did 
the  last  time,"  she  said  gloomily.  "I  only  hope  I 
don't  break  out  in  colors." 

The  meal  was  over  finally,  but  if  I  had  hoped  for 
another  word  alone  with  Margery  Fleming  that  eve- 
ning, I  was  foredoomed  to  disappointment.  Letitia 
sent  the  girl,  not  ungently,  to  bed,  and  ordered  Jane 
out  of  the  room  with  a  single  curt  gesture  toward 
the  door. 

"You'd  better  wash  those  cups  yourself,  Jane,"  she 
said.  "I  don't  see  any  sense  anyhow  in  getting  out 
the  best  china  unless  there's  real  company.  Besides, 
I'm  going  to  talk  business." 

Poor,  meek,  spiritless  Miss  Jane!  The  situation 
was  absurd  in  spite  of  its  pathos.  She  confided  to  me 
once  that  never  in  her  sixty-five  years  of  life  had  she 
bought  herself  a  gown,  or  chosen  the  dinner.  She 
was  snubbed  with  painstaking  perseverance,  and  sent 
out  of  the  room  when  subjects  requiring  frank  han- 
dling were  under  discussion.  She  was  as  unsophis- 
ticated as  a  child  of  ten,  as  unworldly  as  a  baby,  as — 
well,  poor  Miss  Jane,  again. 

When  the  door  had  closed  benind  her,  Miss  Letitia 


NINETY-EIGHT  PEARLS          43 

listened  for  a  moment,  got  up  suddenly  and  crossing 
the  room  with  amazing  swiftness  for  her  years, 
pounced  on  the  knob  and  threw  it  open  again.  But 
the  passage  was  empty;  Miss  Jane's  slim  little  figure 
was  disappearing  into  the  kitchen.  The  older  sister 
watched  her  out  of  sight,  and  then  returned  to  her 
sofa  without  deigning  explanation. 

"I  didn't  want  to  see  you  about  the  will,  Mr. 
Knox,"  she  began  without  prelude.  "The  will  can 
wait.  I  ain't  going  to  die  just  yet — not  if  I  know 
anything.  But  although  I  think  you'd  look  a  heap 
better  and  more  responsible  if  you  wore  some  hair 
on  your  face,  still  in  most  things  I  think  you're  a 
man  of  sense.  And  you're  not  too  young.  That's 
why  I  didn't  send  for  Harry  Wardrop:  he's  too 
young." 

I  winced  at  that.  Miss  Letitia  leaned  forward  and 
put  her  bony  hand  on  my  knee. 

"I've  been  robbed,"  she  announced  in  a  half  whis- 
per, and  straightened  to  watch  the  effect  of  her  words, 

"Indeed!"  I  said,  properly  thunderstruck.  I  was 
surprised.  I  had  always  believed  that  only  the  use 
of  the  fourth  dimension  in  space  would  enable  any 
one,  not  desired,  to  gain  access  to  the  Maitland  house. 
"Of  money?" 

"Not  money,  although  I  had  a  good  bit  in  the 
house."  This  also  I  knew.  It  was  said  of  Miss  Le- 
titia that  when  money  came  into  her  possession  it 
went  out  of  circulation. 

"Not— the  pearls?"  I  asked. 


44     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

She  answered  my  question  witn  another. 

"When  you  had  those  pearls  appraised  for  me  at 
the  jewelers  last  year,  'now  many  were  there?" 

"Not  quite  one  hundred.  I  think — yes,  ninety1 
eight." 

"Exactly,"  she  corroborated,  in  triumph.  "They 
belonged  to  my  mother.  Margery's  mother  got  some 
of  them.  That's  a  good  many  years  ago,  young  man. 
They  are  worth  more  than  they  were  then — a  great 
deal  more." 

"Twenty-two  thousand  dollars,"  I  repeated.  "You 
remember,  Miss  Letitia,  that  I  protested  vigorously  at 
the  time  against  your  keeping  them  in  the  house." 

Miss  Letitia  ignored  this,  but  before  she  went  on 
she  repeated  again  her  cat-like  pouncing  at  the  door, 
only  to  find  the  hall  empty  as  before.  This  time 
when  she  sat  down  it  was  knee  to  knee  with  me. 

"Yesterday  morning,"  she  said  gravely,  "I  got  down 
the  box;  they  have  always  been  kept  in  the  small 
safe  in  the  top  of  my  closet.  When  Jane  found  a 
picture  of  my  niece,  Margery  Fleming,  in  Harry's 
room,  I  thought  it  likely  there  was  some  truth  in  the 
gossip  Jane  heard  about  the  two,  and — if  there  was 
going  to  be  a  wedding — why,  the  pearls  were  to  go  to 
Margery  anyhow.  But — I  found  the  door  of  the  safe 
unlocked  and  a  little  bit  open — and  ten  of  the  pearls 
were  gone!" 

"Gone!"  I  echoed.  "Ten  of  them!  Why,  it's 
ridiculous!  If  ten,  why  not  the  whole  ninety- 
eight?" 


NINETY-EIGHT  PEARLS          45 

"How  do  I  know?"  she  replied  with  asperity. 
"That's  what  I  keep  a  lawyer  for:  that's  why  I  sent 
for  you." 

For  the  second  time  in  two  days  I  protested  the 
same  thing. 

"But  you  need  a  detective,"  I  cried.  "If  you  can 
find  the  thief  I  will  be  glad  to  send  him  where  he 
ought  to  be,  but  I  couldn't  find  him." 

"I  will  not  have  the  police,"  she  persisted  inflexi- 
bly. "They  will  come  around  asking  impertinent 
questions,  and  telling  the  newspapers  that  a  foolish 
old  woman  had  got  what  she  deserved." 

"Then  you  are  going  to  send  them  to  a  bank?" 

"You  have  less  sense  than  I  thought,"  she  snapped. 
"I  am  going  to  leave  them  where  they  are,  and  watch. 
Whoever  took  the  ten  will  be  back  for  more,  mark 
my  words." 

"I  don't  advise  it,"  I  said  decidedly.  "You  have 
most  of  them  now,  and  you  might  easily  lose  them 
all;  not  only  that,  but  it  is  not  safe  for  you  or  your 
sister." 

"Stuff  and  nonsense!"  the  old  lady  said,  with 
spirit.  "As  for  Jane,  she  doesn't  even  know  they  are 
gone.  I  know  who  did  it.  It  was  the  new  house- 
maid, Bella  MacKenzie.  Nobody  else  could  get  in. 
I  lock  up  the  house  myself  at  night,  and  I'm  in  the 
habit  of  doing  a  pretty  thorough  job  of  it.  They 
went  in  the  last  three  weeks,  for  I  counted  them 
Saturday  three  weeks  ago  myself.  The  only  persons 
in  the  house  in  that  time,  except  ourselves,  were 


46     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

Harry,  Bella  and  Hepsibah,  who's  been  here  for  forty 
years  and  wouldn't  know  a  pearl  from  a  pickled  on- 
ion." 

"Then — what  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  I  asked. 
"Have  Bella  arrested  and  her  trunk  searched?" 

I  felt  myself  shrinking  in  the  old  lady's  esteem 
every  minute. 

"Her  trunk!"  she  said  scornfully.  "I  turned  it 
inside  out  this  morning,  pretending  I  thought  she 
was  stealing  the  laundry  soap.  Like  as  not  she  has 
them  buried  in  the  vegetable  garden.  What  I  want 
you  to  do  is  to  stay  here  for  three  or  four  nights,  to 
be  on  hand.  When  I  catch  the  thief,  I  want  my 
lawyer  right  by." 

It  ended  by  my  consenting,  of  course.  Miss  Le- 
titia  was  seldom  refused.  I  telephoned  to  Fred  that 
I  would  not  be  home,  listened  for  voices  and  decided 
Margery  Fleming  had  gone  to  bed.  Miss  Jane 
lighted  me  to  the  door  of  the  guest  room,  and  saw 
that  everything  was  comfortable.  Her  thin  gray 
curls  bobbed  as  she  examined  the  water  pitcher,  saw 
to  the  towels,  and  felt  the  bed  linen  for  dampness. 
At  the  door  she  stopped  and  turned  around  timidly. 

"Has — has  anything  happened  to  disturb  my  sis- 
ter?" she  asked.  "She — has  been  almost  irritable  all 
day." 

Almost ! 

"She  is  worried  about  her  colored  orphans,"  I 
evaded.  "She  does  not  approve  of  fireworks  for  them, 
on  the  fourth  of  July." 


NINETY-EIGHT  PEARLS          47 

Miss  Jane  was  satisfied.  I  watched  her  little,  old, 
black-robed  figure  go  lightly  down  the  hall.  Then  I 
bolted  the  door,  opened  all  the  windows,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  a  surreptitious  smoke. 


CHAPTER  IY 

A  THIEF  IN  THE  NIGHT 

THE  windows  being  wide  open,  it  was  not  long 
before  a  great  moth  came  whirring  in.  He 
hurled  himself  at  the  light  and  then,  dazzled  and 
singed,  began  to  beat  with  noisy  thumps  against  the 
barrier  of  the  ceiling.  Finding  no  egress  there,  he 
was  back  at  the  lamp  again,  whirling  in  dizzy  circles 
until  at  last,  worn  out,  he  dropped  to  the  table,  where 
he  lay  on  his  back,  kicking  impotently. 

The  room  began  to  fill  with  tiny  winged  creatures 
that  flung  themselves  headlong  to  destruction,  so  I 
put  out  the  light  and  sat  down  near  the  window,  with 
my  cigar  and  my  thoughts. 

Miss  Letitia's  troubles  I  dismissed  shortly.  While 
it  was  odd  that  only  ten  pearls  should  have  been 
taken,  still — in  every  other  way  it  bore  the  marks  of 
an  ordinary  theft.  The  thief  might  have  thought 
that  by  leaving  the  majority  of  the  gems  he  could 
postpone  discovery  indefinitely.  But  the  Fleming 
case  was  of  a  different  order.  Taken  by  itself,  Flem- 
ing's disappearance  could  have  been  easily  accounted 
for.  There  must  be  times  in  the  lives  of  all  unscrupu- 
lous individuals  when  they  feel  the  need  of  retiring 

48 


A  THIEF  IN  THE  NIGHT         49 

temporarily  from  the  public  eye.  But  the  intrusion 
into  the  Fleming  home,  the  ransacked  desk  and  the 
broken  money  drawer — most  of  all,  the  bit  of  paper 
with  eleven  twenty-two  on  it — here  was  a  hurdle  my 
legal  mind  refused  to  take. 

I  had  finished  my  second  cigar,  and  was  growing 
more  and  more  wakeful,  when  I  heard  a  footstep  on 
the  path  around  the  house.  It  was  black  outside; 
when  I  looked  out,  as  I  did  cautiously,  I  could  not 
see  even  the  gray- white  of  the  cement  walk.  The 
steps  had  ceased,  but  there  was  a  sound  of  fumbling 
at  one  of  the  shutters  below.  The  catch  clicked 
twice,  as  if  some  thin  instrument  was  being  slipped 
underneath  to  raise  it,  and  once  I  caught  a  muttered 
exclamation. 

I  drew  in  my  head  and,  puffing  my  cigar  until  it 
was  glowing,  managed  by  its  light  to  see  that  it  was 
a  quarter  to  two.  When  I  listened  again,  the  house- 
breaker had  moved  to  another  window,  and  was  shak- 
ing it  cautiously. 

With  Miss  Letitia's  story  of  the  pearls  fresh  in  my 
mind,  I  felt  at  once  that  the  thief,  finding  his  ten  a 
prize,  had  come  back  for  more.  My  first  impulse 
was  to  go  to  the  head  of  my  bed,  where  I  am  accus- 
tomed to  keep  a  revolver.  With  the  touch  of  the  tall 
corner  post,  however,  I  remembered  that  I  was  not  at 
home,  and  that  it  was  not  likely  there  was  a  weapon 
in  the  house. 

Finally,  after  knocking  over  an  ornament  that  shat- 
tered on  the  hearth  and  sounded  like  the  crash  of 


50    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

doom,  I  found  on  the  mantel  a  heavy  brass  candle- 
stick, and  with  it  in  my  hand  I  stepped  into  the  gloom 
of  the  hallway  and  felt  my  way  to  the  stairs. 

There  were  no  night  lights ;  the  darkness  was  total. 
I  found  the  stairs  before  I  expected  to,  and  came  with- 
in an  ace  of  pitching  down,  headlong.  I  had  kicked 
off  my  shoes — a  fact  which  I  regretted  later.  Once 
down  the  stairs  I  was  on  more  familiar  territory. 
I  went  at  once  into  the  library,  which  was  beneath 
my  room,  but  the  sounds  at  the  window  had  ceased. 
I  thought  I  heard  steps  on  the  walk,  going  toward 
the  front  of  the  house.  I  wheeled  quickly  and  started 
for  the  door,  when  something  struck  me  a  ter- 
rific blow  on  the  nose.  I  reeled  back  and  sat  down, 
dizzy  and  shocked.  It  was  only  when  no  second 
blow  followed  the  first  that  I  realized  what  had  oc- 
curred. 

With  my  two  hands  out  before  me  in  the  blackness, 
I  had  groped,  one  hand  on  either  side  of  the  open 
door,  which  of  course  I  had  struck  violently  with  my 
nose.  Afterward  I  found  it  had  bled  considerably, 
and  my  collar  and  tie  must  have  added  to  my  ghastly 
appearance. 

My  candlestick  had  rolled  under  the  table,  and  after 
crawling  around  on  my  hands  and  knees,  I  found  it. 
I  had  lost,  I  suppose,  three  or  four  minutes,  and  I 
was  raging  at  my  awkwardness  and  stupidity.  No 
one,  however,  seemed  to  have  heard  the  noise.  For 
all  her  boasted  watchfulness,  Miss  Letitia  must  have 
been  asleep.  I  got  back  into  the  hall  and  from  there 


A  THIEF  IN  THE  frlGHT         51 

to  the  dining-room.  Some  one  was  fumbling  at  the 
shutters  there,  and  as  I  looked  tkey  swung1  open. 
It  was  so  dark  outside,  with  the  trees  and  the  distance 
from  the  street,  that  only  the  creaking  of  the  shut- 
ter told  it  had  opened.  I  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  with  one  hand  firmly  clutching  my  candle- 
stick. 

But  the  window  refused  to  move.  The  burglar 
seemed  to  have  no  proper  tools;  he  got  something 
under  the  sash,  but  it  snapped,  and  through  the 
heavy  plate-glass  I  could  hear  him  swearing.  Then 
he  abruptly  left  the  window  and  made  for  the  front 
of  the  house. 

I  blundered  in  the  same  direction,  my  unshod  feet 
striking  on  projecting  furniture  and  causing  me 
agonies,  even  through  my  excitement.  When  I 
reached  the  front  door,  however,  I  was  amazed  to 
find  it  unlocked,  and  standing  open  perhaps  an  inch. 
I  stopped  uncertainly.  I  was  in  a  peculiar  position; 
not  even  the  most  ardent  admirers  of  antique  brass 
candlesticks  indorse  them  as  weapons  of  offense  or 
defense.  But,  there  seeming  to  be  nothing  else  to 
do,  I  opened  the  door  quietly  and  stepped  out  into 
the  darkness. 

The  next  instant  I  was  flung  heavily  to  the  porch 
floor.  I  am  not  a  small  man  by  any  means,  but  un- 
der the  fury  of  that  onslaught  I  was  a  child.  It  was 
a  porch  chair,  I  think,  that  knocked  me  senseless;  I 
know  I  folded  up  like  a  jack-knife,  and  that  was  all 
I  did  know  for  a  few  minutes. 


52    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

When  I  came  to  I  was  lying  where  I  had  fallen,  and 
a  candle  was  burning  beside  me  on  the  porch  floor. 
It  took  me  a  minute  to  remember,  and  another  minute 
to  realize  that  I  was  looking  into  the  barrel  of  a  re- 
volver. It  occurred  to  me  that  I  had  never  seen  a 
more  villainous  face  than  that  of  the  man  who  held 
it — which  shows  my  state  of  mind — and  that  my 
position  was  the  reverse  of  comfortable.  Then  the 
man  behind  the  gun  spoke. 

"What  did  you  do  with  that  bag?"  he  demanded, 
and  I  felt  his  knee  on  my  chest. 

"What  bag?"  I  inquired  feebly.  My  head  was 
jumping,  and  the  candle  was  a  volcanic  eruption  of 
sparks  and  smoke. 

"Don't  be  a  fool,"  the  gentleman  with  the  revol- 
ver persisted.  "If  I  don't  get  that  bag  within  five 
minutes,  I'll  fill  you  as  full  of  holes  as  a  cheese." 

"I  haven't  seen  any  bag,"  I  said  stupidly.  "What 
sort  of  a  bag?"  I  heard  my  own  voice,  drunk  from 
the  shock.  "Paper  bag,  laundry  bag — " 

"You've  hidden  it  in  the  house,"  he  said,  bringing 
the  revolver  a  little  closer  with  every  word.  My 
senses  came  back  with  a  jerk  and  I  struggled  to  free 
myself. 

"Go  in  and  look,"  I  responded.  "Let  me  up  from 
here,  and  I'll  take  you  in  myself." 

The  man's  face  was  a  study  in  amazement  and 
anger. 

"You'll  take  me  in!  You!"  He  got  up  without 
Changing  the  menacing  position  of  the  gun.  "You 


A  THIEF  IN  THE  NIGHT         53 

walk  in  there — here,  carry  the  candle — and  take  me 
to  that  bag.  Quick,  do  you  hear?" 

I  was  too  bewildered  to  struggle.  I  got  up  diz- 
zily, but  when  I  tried  to  stoop  for  the  candle  I  al- 
most fell  on  it.  My  head  cleared  after  a  moment, 
and  when  I  had  picked  up  the  candle  I  had  a  good 
chance  to  look  at  my  assailant.  He  was  staring  at 
me,  too.  He  was  a  young  fellow,  well  dressed,  and 
haggard  beyond  belief. 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  a  bag,"  I  persisted, 
"but  if  you  will  give  me  your  word  there  was  noth- 
ing in  it  belonging  to  this  house,  I  will  take  you  in 
and  let  you  look  for  it." 

The  next  moment  he  had  lowered  the  revolver  and 
clutched  my  arm. 

"Who  in  the  devil's  name  are  you?"  he  asked  wildly. 

I  think  the  thing  dawned  on  us  both  at  the  same 
moment. 

"My  name  is  Knox,"  I  said  coolly,  feeling  for  my 
handkerchief — my  head  was  bleeding  from  a  cut  over 
the  ear— "John  Knox." 

"Knox!"  Instead  of  showing  relief,  his  manner 
showed  greater  consternation  than  ever.  He  snatched 
the  candle  from  me  and,  holding  it  up,  searched  my 
face.  "Then — good  God — where  is  my  traveling- 
bag?" 

"I  have  something  in  my  head  where  you  hit  me," 
I  said.  "Perhaps  that  is  it." 

But  my  sarcasm  was  lost  on  him. 

"I  am  Harry  Wardrop,"  he  said,  "and  I  have  been 


£4     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

robbed,  Mr.  Knox.  I  was  trying  to  get  in  the  house 
without  waking  the  family,  and  when  I  came  back 
here  to  the  front  door,  where  I  had  left  my  valise, 
it  was  gone.  I  thought  you  were  the  thief  when  you 
came  out,  and — we've  lost  all  this  time.  Somebody 
has  followed  me  and  robbed  me!" 

"What  was  in  the  bag?"  I  asked,  stepping  to  the 
edge  of  the 'porch  and  looking  around,  with  the  help 
of  the  candle. 

"Valuable  papers,"  he  said  shortly.  He  seemed 
to  be  dazed  and  at  a  loss  what  to  do  next.  We  had 
both  instinctively  kept  our  voices  low. 

"You  are  certain  you  left  it  here?"  I  asked.  The 
thing  seemed  incredible  in  the  quiet  and  peace  of  that 
neighborhood. 

"Where  you  are  standing." 

Once  more  I  began  a  desultory  search,  going  down 
the  steps  and  looking  among  the  cannas  that  bordered 
the  porch.  Something  glistened  beside  the  step,  and 
stooping  down  I  discovered  a  small  brown  leather 
traveling-bag,  apparently  quite  new. 

"Here  it  is,"  I  said,  not  so  gracious  as  I  might 
have  bees;  I  had  suffered  considerably  for  that  trav- 
eling-bag. The  sight  of  it  restored  Wardrop's  poise 
at  once.  His  twitching  features  relaxed. 

"By  Jore,  I'm  glad  to  see  it,"  he  said.  "I  can't 
explain,  but — tremendous  things  were  depending  on 
that  bag,  Mr.  Knox.  I  don't  know  how  to  apologize 
to  you;  I  must  hare  nearly  brained  you." 

"You  did,"  I  said  grimly,  and  gave  him  the  bag. 


A  THIEF  IN  THE  NIGHT         55 

The  moment  he  took  it  I  knew  there  was  something 
wrong;  he  hurried  into  the  house  and  lighted  the 
library  lamp.  Then  he  opened  the  traveling-bag  with 
shaking  fingers.  It  was  empty! 

He  stood  for  a  moment,  staring  incredulously  into 
it.  Then  he  hurled  it  down  on  the  table  and  turned 
on  me,  as  I  stood  beside  him. 

"It's  a  trick!"  he  said  furiously.  "You've  hidden 
it  somewhere.  This  is  not  my  bag.  You've  sub- 
stituted one  just  like  it." 

"Don't  be  a  fool,"  I  retorted.  "How  could  I  sub- 
stitute an  empty  satchel  for  yours  when  up  to  fifteen 
minutes  ago  I  had  never  seen  you  or  your  grip  either  ? 
Use  a  little  common  sense.  Some  place  to-night  you 
have  put  down  that  bag,  and  some  clever  thief  has 
substituted  a  similar  one.  It's  an  old  trick." 

He  dropped  into  a  chair  and  buried  his  face  in  his 
hands. 

"It's  impossible,"  he  said  after  a  pause,  while  he 
seemed  to  be  going  over,  minute  by  minute,  the  events 
of  the  night.  "I  was  followed,  as  far  as  that  goes, 
in  Plattsburg.  Two  men  watched  me  from  the  min- 
ute I  got  there,  on  Tuesday;  I  changed  my  hotel,  and 
for  all  of  yesterday — Wednesday,  that  is — I  felt  se- 
cure enough.  But  on  my  way  to  the  train  I  felt  that 
I  was  under  surveillance  again,  and  by  turning  quickly 
I  came  face  to  face  with  one  of  the  men." 

"Would  you  know  him?"  I  asked. 

"Yes.  I  thought  he  was  a  detective;  you  know 
I've  had  a  lot  of  that  sort  of  thing  lately,  with  elec- 


56     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

tion  coming  on.  He  didn't  get  on  the  train,  how- 
ever." 

"But  the  other  one  may  have  done  so." 

"Yes,  the  other  one  may.  The  thing  I  don't  un- 
derstand is  this,  Mr.  Knox.  When  we  drew  in  at 
Bellwood  Station  I  distinctly  remember  opening  the 
bag  and  putting  my  newspaper  and  railroad  schedule 
inside.  It  was  the  right  bag  then;  my  clothing  was 
in  it,  and  my  brushes." 

I  had  been  examining  the  empty  bag  as  he  talked. 

"Where  did  you  put  your  railroad  schedule?"  I 
asked. 

"In  the  leather  pocket  at  the  side." 

"It  is  here,"  I  said,  drawing  out  the  yellow  folder. 
For  a  moment  my  companion  looked  almost  haunted. 
He  pressed  his  hands  to  his  head  and  began  to  pace 
the  room  like  a  crazy  man. 

"The  whole  thing  is  impossible.  I  tell  you,  that 
valise  was  heavy  when  I  walked  up  from  the  station. 
I  changed  it  from  one  hand  to  the  other  because  of 
the  weight.  When  I  got  here  I  set  it  down  on  the 
edge  of  the  porch  and  tried  the  door.  When  I  found 
it  locked—" 

"But  it  wasn't  locked,"  I  broke  in.  "When  I  came 
down-stairs  to  look  for  a  burglar,  I  found  it  open  at 
least  an  inch." 

He  stopped  in  his  pacing  up  and  down,  and  looked 
at  me  curiously. 

"We're  both  crazy,  then,"  he  asserted  gravely.  "I 
tell  you,  I  tried  every  way  I  knew  to  unlock  that  door, 


A  THIEF  IN  THE  NIGHT         57 

and  could  hear  the  chain  rattling.  Unlocked!  You 
don't  know  the  way  this  house  is  fastened  up  at 
night." 

"Nevertheless,  it  was  unlocked  when  I  came  down." 

We  were  so  engrossed  that  neither  of  us  had  heard 
steps  on  the  stairs.  The  sound  of  a  smothered  ex- 
clamation from  the  doorway  caused  us  both  to  turn 
suddenly.  Standing  there,  in  a  loose  gown  of  some 
sort,  very  much  surprised  and  startled,  was  Margery 
Fleming.  Wardrop  pulled  himself  together  at  once. 
As  for  me,  I  knew  what  sort  of  figure  I  cut,  my  col- 
lar stained  with  blood,  a  lump  on  my  forehead  that 
felt  as  big  as  a  door-knob,  and  no  shoes. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  asked  uncertainly.  "I 
heard  such  queer  noises,  and  I  thought  some  one  had 
broken  into  the  house." 

"Mr.  Wardrop  was  trying  to  break  in,"  I  explained, 
"and  I  heard  him  and  came  down.  On  the  way  I 
had  a  bloody  encounter  with  an  open  door,  in  which 
I  came  out  the  loser." 

I  don't  think  she  quite  believed  me.  She  looked 
from  my  swollen  head  to  the  open  bag,  and  then  to 
Wardrop's  pale  face.  Then  I  think,  woman-like,  she 
remembered  the  two  great  braids  that  hung  over  her 
shoulders  and  the  dressing-gown  she  wore,  for  she 
backed  precipitately  into  the  hall. 

"I'm  glad  that's  all  it  is,"  she  called  back  cautiously, 
and  we  could  hear  her  running  up  the  stairs. 

"You'd  better  go  to  bed,"  Wardrop  said,  picking 
up  his  hat.  "I'm  going  down  to  the  station.  There's 


58    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

no  train  out  of  here  between  midnight  and  a  flag 
train  at  four-thirty  A.  M.  It's  not  likely  to  be  of  any 
use,  but  I  want  to  see  who  goes  on  that  train." 

"It  is  only  half  past  two,"  I  said,  glancing  at  my 
watch.  "We  might  look  around  outside  first." 

The  necessity  for  action  made  him  welcome  any 
suggestion.  Reticent  as  he  was,  his  feverish  excite- 
ment made  me  think  that  something  vital  hung  on 
the  recovery  of  the  contents  of  that  Russia  leather 
bag.  We  found  a  lantern  somewhere  in  the  back  of 
the  house,  and  together  we  went  over  the  grounds. 
It  did  not  take  long,  and  we  found  nothing. 

As  I  look  back  on  that  night,  the  key  to  what  had 
passed  and  to  much  that  was  coming  was  so  simple, 
so  direct — and  yet  we  missed  it  entirely.  Nor,  when 
bigger  things  developed,  and  Hunter's  trained  senses 
were  brought  into  play,  did  he  do  much  better.  It 
was  some  time  before  we  learned  the  true  inwardness 
of  the  events  of  that  night. 

At  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  Wardrop  came  back 
exhausted  and  nerveless.  No  one  had  taken  the  four- 
thirty;  the  contents  of  the  bag  were  gone,  probably 
beyond  recall.  I  put  my  dented  candlestick  back  on 
the  mantel,  and  prepared  for  a  little  sleep,  blessing 
the  deafness  of  old  age  which  had  enabled  the  Mait- 
land  ladies  to  sleep  through  it  all.  I  tried  to  forget 
the  queer  events  of  the  night,  but  the  throbbing  of 
my  head  kept  me  awake,  and  through  it  all  one  ques- 
tion obtruded  itself — who  had  unlocked  the  front  door 
and  left  it  open? 


CHAPTER  V 

LITTLE  MISS  JANE 

I  WAS  almost  unrecognizable  when  I  looked  at  my- 
self in  the  mirror  the  next  morning,  preparatory 
to  dressing  for  breakfast.  My  nose  boasted  a  new 
arch,  like  the  back  of  an  angry  cat,  making  my  pro- 
file Roman  and  ferocious,  and  the  lump  on  my  fore- 
head from  the  chair  was  swollen,  glassy  and  purple. 
I  turned  my  back  to  the  mirror  and  dressed  in  wrath- 
ful irritation  and  my  yesterday's  linen. 
i  Miss  Fleming  was  in  the  breakfast-room  when  I 
got  down,  standing  at  a  window,  her  back  to  me.  I 
have  carried  with  me,  during  all  the  months  since 
that  time,  a  mental  picture  of  her  as  she  stood  there, 
in  a  pink  morning  frock  of  some  sort.  But  only  the 
other  day,  having  mentioned  this  to  her,  she  assured 
me  that  the  frock  was  blue,  that  she  didn't  have  a 
pink  garment  at  the  time  this  story  opens  and  that  if 
she  did  she  positively  didn't  have  it  on.  And  hav- 
ing thus  flouted  my  eye  for  color,  she  maintains  that 
she  did  not  have  her  back  to  me,  for  she  distinctly 
saw  my  newly-raised  bridge  as  I  came  down  the  stairs. 
So  I  amend  this.  Miss  Fleming  in  a  blue  frock  was 
facing  the  door  when  I  went  into  the  breakfast-room. 

59 


60    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

Of  one  thing  I  am  certain.  She  came  forward  and 
held  out  her  hand. 

"Good  morning,"  she  said.  "What  a  terrible 
face!" 

"It  isn't  mine,"  I  replied  meekly.  "My  own  face 
is  beneath  these  excrescences.  I  tried  to  cover  the 
bump  on  my  forehead  with  French  chalk,  but  it  only 
accentuated  the  thing,  like  snow  on  a  mountain  top." 

"  'The  purple  peaks  of  Darien/  "  she  quoted,  pour- 
ing me  my  coffee.  "Do  you  know,  I  feel  so  much  bet- 
ter since  you  have  taken  hold  of  things.  Aunt  Le- 
titia  thinks  you  are  wonderful." 

I  thought  ruefully  of  the  failure  of  my  first  at- 
tempt to  play  the  sleuth,  and  I  disclaimed  any  right 
to  Miss  Letitia's  high  opinion  of  me.  From  my  dog- 
ging the  watchman  to  the  police  station,  to  Delia  and 
her  note,  was  a  short  mental  step. 

"Before  any  one  comes  down,  Miss  Fleming,"  I 
said,  "I  want  to  ask  a  question  or  two.  What  was 
the  name  of  the  maid  who  helped  you  search  the  house 
that  night?" 

"Anne." 

"What  other  maids  did  you  say  there  were?" 

"Delia  and  Rose." 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  them?  Where  they 
came  from,  or  where  they  went?" 

She  smiled  a  little. 

"What  does  one  know  about  new  servants  ?"  she  re- 
sponded. "They  bring  you  references,  but  references 

are  the  price  most  women  pay  to  get  rid  of  their  ser- 

W — 


LITTLE  MISS  JANE 61 

vants  without  a  fuss.  Rose  was  fat  and  old,  but 
Delia  was  pretty.  I  thought  she  rather  liked  Carter." 

Carter  as  well  as  Shields,  the  policeman.  I  put 
Miss  Delia  down  as  a  flirt. 

"And  you  have  no  idea  where  Carter  went?" 

"None." 

Wardrop  came  in  then,  and  we  spoke  of  other 
things.  The  two  elderly  ladies  it  seemed  had  tea 
and  toast  in  their  rooms  when  they  wakened,  and  the 
three  of  us  breakfasted  together.  But  conversation 
languished  with  Wardrop's  appearance;  he  looked 
haggard  and  worn,  avoided  Miss  Fleming's  eyes,  and 
after  ordering  eggs  instead  of  his  chop,  looked  at  his 
watch  and  left  without  touching  anything. 

"I  want  to  get  the  nine-thirty,  Margie,"  he  said, 
coming  back  with  his  hat  in  his  hand.  "I  may  not  be 
out  to  dinner.  Tell  Miss  Letitia,  will  you?"  He 
turned  to  go,  but  on  second  thought  came  back  to  me 
and  held  out  his  hand. 

"I  may  not  see  you  again,"  he  began. 

"Not  if  I  see  you  first,"  I  interrupted.  He  glanced 
at  my  mutilated  features  and  smiled. 

"I  have  made  you  a  Maitland,"  he  said.  "I  didn't 
think  that  anything  but  a  prodigal  Nature  could  dup- 
licate Miss  Letitia's  nose!  I'm  honestly  sorry,  Mr. 
Knox,  and  if  you  do  not  want  Miss  Jane  at  that  bump 
with  a  cold  silver  knife  and  some  butter,  you'd  better 
duck  before  she  comes  down.  Good-bye,  Margie." 

I  think  the  girl  was  as  much  baffled  as  I  was  by 
the  change  in  his  manner  when  he  spoke  to  her.  His 


62     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

smile  faded  and  he  hardly  met  her  eyes:  I  thought 
that  his  aloofness  puzzled  rather  than  hurt  her. 
When  the  house  door  had  closed  behind  him,  she 
dropped  her  chin  in  her  hand  and  looked  across  the 
table. 

"You  did  not  tell  me  the  truth  last  night,  Mr. 
Knox,"  she  said.  "I  have  never  seen  Harry  look  like 
that.  Something  has  happened  to  him." 

"He  was  robbed  of  his  traveling-bag,"  I  explained, 
on  Fred's  theory  that  half  a  truth  is  better  than  a 
poor  lie.  "It's  a  humiliating  experience,  I  believe. 
A  man  will  throw  away  thousands,  or  gamble  them 
away,  with  more  equanimity  than  he'll  see  some  one 
making  off  with  his  hair  brushes  or  his  clean  collars." 

"His  traveling-bag!"  she  repeated  scornfully. 
"Mr.  Knox,  something  has  happened  to  my  father, 
and  you  and  Harry  are  hiding  it  from  me." 

"On  my  honor,  it  is  nothing  of  the  sort,"  I  has- 
tened to  assure  her.  "I  saw  him  for  only  a  few  min- 
utes, just  long  enough  for  him  to  wreck  my  appear- 
ance." 

"He  did  not  speak  of  father?" 

"No." 

She  got  up  and  crossing  to  the  wooden  mantel,  put 
her  arms  upon  it  and  leaned  her  head  against  them. 
"I  wanted  to  ask  him,"  she  said  drearily,  "but  I  am 
afraid  to.  Suppose  he  doesn't  know  and  I  should  tell 
him !  He  would  go  to  Mr.  Schwartz  at  once,  and  Mr. 
Schwartz  is  treacherous.  The  papers  would  get  it, 
too." 


LITTLE  MISS  JANE  63 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  I  felt  as  awkward 
as  a  man  always  does  when  a  woman  begins  to  cry. 
If  he  knows  her  well  enough  he  can  go  over  and  pat 
her  on  the  shoulder  and  assure  her  it  is  going  to 
be  all  right.  If  he  does  not  know  her,  and  there  are 
two  maiden  aunts  likely  to  come  in  at  any  minute, 
he  sits  still,  as  I  did,  and  waits  until  the  storm 
clears. 

Miss  Margery  was  not  long  in  emerging  from  her 
handkerchief. 

"I  didn't  sleep  much,"  she  explained,  dabbing  at 
her  eyes,  "and  I  am  nervous,  anyhow.  Mr.  Knox, 
are  you  sure  it  was  only  Harry  trying  to  get  into  the 
house  last  night?" 

"Only  Harry,"  I  repeated.  "If  Mr.  Wardrop's 
attempt  to  get  into  the  house  leaves  me  in  this  con- 
dition, what  would  a  real  burglar  have  done  to  me!" 

She  was  too  intent  to  be  sympathetic  over  my  dis- 
figured face. 

"There  was  some  one  moving  about  up-stairs  not 
long  before  I  came  down,"  she  said  slowly. 

"You  heard  me;  I  almost  fell  down  the  stairs." 

"Did  you  brush  past  my  door,  and  strike  the  knob  ?" 
she  demanded. 

"No,  I  was  not  near  any  door." 

"Very  well,"  triumphantly.  "Some  one  did.  Not 
only  that,  but  they  were  in  the  store-room  on  the 
floor  above.  I  could  hear  one  person  and  perhaps 
two,  going  from  one  side  of  the  room  to  the  other 
and  back  again." 


64    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

"You  heard  a  goblin  quadrille.  First  couple  for- 
ward and  back,"  I  said  facetiously. 

"I  heard  real  footsteps — unmistakable  ones.  The 
maids  sleep  back  on  the  second  floor,  and — don't  tell 
me  it  was  rats.  There  are  no  rats  in  my  Aunt  Le- 
titia's  house." 

I  was  more  impressed  than  I  cared  to  show.  I 
found  I  had  a  half  hour  before  train  time,  and  as 
we  were  neither  of  us  eating  anything,  I  suggested 
that  we  explore  the  upper  floor  of  the  house.  I  did 
it,  I  explained,  not  because  I  expected  to  find  any- 
thing, but  because  I  was  sure  we  would  not. 

We  crept  past  the  two  closed  doors  behind  which 
the  ladies  Maitland  were  presumably  taking  out  their 
crimps  and  taking  in  their  tea.  Then  up  a  narrow, 
obtrusively  clean  stairway  to  the  upper  floor. 

It  was  an  old-fashioned,  sloping-roofed  attic,  with 
narrow  windows  and  a  bare  floor.  At  one  end  a 
door  opened  into  a  large  room,  and  in  there  were  the 
family  trunks  of  four  generations  of  Maitlands. 
One  on  another  they  were  all  piled  there — little  hair 
Drunks,  squab-topped  trunks,  huge  Saratogas — of  the 
period  when  the  two  maiden  ladies  were  in  their  late 
teens — and  there  were  handsome,  modern  trunks,  too. 
For  Miss  Fleming's  satisfaction  I  made  an  examina- 
tion of  the  room,  but  it  showed  nothing.  There  was 
little  or  no  dust  to  have  been  disturbed ;  the  window? 
were  closed  and  locked. 

In  the  main  attic  were  two  step-ladders,  some  cur- 
tains drying  on  frames  and  an  old  chest  of  drawers 


LITTLE  MISS  JANE 65 

with  glass  knobs  and  the  veneering  broken  in  places. 
One  of  the  drawers  stood  open,  and  inside  could  be 
seen  a  red  and  white  patchwork  quilt,  and  a  grayish 
thing  that  looked  like  flannel  and  smelled  to  heaven  of 
camphor.  We  gave  up  finally,  and  started  down. 

Part  way  down  the  attic  stairs  Margery  stopped, 
her  eyes  fixed  on  the  white-scrubbed  rail.  Follow- 
ing her  gaze,  I  stopped,  too,  and  I  felt  a  sort  of  chill 
go  over  me.  No  spot  or  blemish,  no  dirty  finger  print 
marked  the  whiteness  of  that  stair  rail,  except  in  one 
place.  On  it,  clear  and  distinct,  every  line  of  the 
palm  showing,  was  the  reddish  imprint  of  a  hand ! 

Margery  did  not  speak;  she  had  turned  very  white, 
and  closed  her  eyes,  but  she  was  not  faint.  When 
the  first  revulsion  had  passed,  I  reached  over  and 
touched  the  stain.  It  was  quite  dry,  of  course,  but 
it  was  still  reddish-brown ;  another  hour  or  two  would 
see  it  black.  It  was  evidently  fresh — Hunter  said 
afterward  it  must  have  been  about  six  hours  old,  and 
as  things  transpired,  he  was  right.  The  stain  showed 
a  hand  somewhat  short  and  broad,  with  widened  fin- 
ger-tips; marked  in  ink,  it  would  not  have  struck  me 
so  forcibly,  perhaps,  but  there,  its  ugly  red  against 
the  white  wood,  it  seemed  to  me  to  be  the  imprint  of 
a  brutal,  murderous  hand. 

Margery  was   essentially   feminine. 

"What  did  I  tell  you?"  she  asked.  "Some  one  was 
in  this  house  last  night;  I  heard  them  distinctly. 
There  must  have  been  two,  and  they  quarreled — " 
she  shuddered. 


We  went  on  down-stairs  into  the  quiet  and  peace 
of  the  dining-room  again.  I  got  some  hot  coffee  for 
Margery,  for  she  looked  shaken,  and  found  I  had 
missed  my  train. 

"I  am  beginning  to  think  I  am  being  pursued  by 
a  malicious  spirit,"  she  said,  trying  to  smile.  "I 
came  away  from  home  because  people  got  into  the 
house  at  night  and  left  queer  signs  of  their  visits, 
and  now,  here  at  Bellwood,  where  nothing  ever  hap- 
pens, the  moment  I  arrive  things  begin  to  occur.  And 
— just  as  it  was  at  home — the  house  was  so  well 
locked  last  night." 

I  did  not  tell  her  of  the  open  hall  door,  just  as  I 
had  kept  from  her  the  fact  that  only  the  contents  of 
Harry  Wardrop's  bag  had  been  taken.  That  it  had 
all  been  the  work  of  one  person,  and  that  that  person, 
having  in  some  way  access  to  the  house,  had  also 
stolen  the  pearls,  was  now  my  confident  belief. 

I  looked  at  Bella — the  maid — as  she  moved  around 
the  dining-room;  her  stolid  face  was  not  even  intelli- 
gent; certainly  not  cunning.  Heppie,  the  cook  and 
only  other  servant,  was  partly  blind  and  her  horizon 
was  the  diameter  of  her  largest  kettle.  No — it  had 
not  been  a  servant,  this  mysterious  intruder  who 
passed  the  Maitland  silver  on  the  side-board  without 
an  attempt  to  take  it,  and  who  floundered  around  an 
attic  at  night,  in  search  of  nothing  more  valuable 
than  patchwork  quilts  and  winter  flannels.  It  is 
strange  to  look  back  and  think  how  quietly  we  sat 


67 


there;   that  we   could  see   nothing  but  burglary- 
an  attempt  at  it — in  what  we  had  found. 

It  must  have  been  after  nine  o'clock  when  Bella 
came  running  into  the  room.  Ordinarily  a  slow  and 
clumsy  creature,  she  almost  flew.  She  had  a  tray  in 
her  hand,  and  the  dishes  were  rattling  and  threaten- 
ing overthrow  at  every  step.  She  brought  up 
against  a  chair,  and  a  cup  went  flying.  The  breaking 
of  a  cup  must  have  been  a  serious  offense  in  Miss 
Letitia  Maitland's  house,  but  Bella  took  no  notice 
whatever  of  it. 

"Miss  Jane,"  she  gasped,  "Miss  Jane,  she's — • 
she's—" 

"Hurt!"  Margery  exclaimed,  rising  and  clutching 
at  the  table  for  support. 

"No.  Gone — she's  gone!  She's  been  run  off 
with!" 

"Nonsense!"  I  said,  seeing  Margery's  horrified 
face.  "Don't  come  in  here  with  such  a  story.  If 
Miss  Jane  is  not  in  her  room,  ske  is  somewhere  else, 
that's  all." 

Bella  stooped  and  gathered  up  the  broken  cup,  her 
lips  moving.  Margery  had  recovered  herself.  She 
made  Bella  straighten  and  explain. 

"Do  you  mean — she  is  not  in  her  room?"  she  asked 
incredulously.  "Isn't  she  somewhere  around  the 
house?" 

"Go  up  and  look  at  the  room,"  the  girl  replied, 
and,  with  Margery  leading,  we  ran  up  the  stairs. 


J68    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

Miss  Jane's  room  was  empty.  From  somewhere 
near  Miss  Letitia  could  be  heard  lecturing  Hepsibah 
about  putting  too  much  butter  on  the  toast.  Her 
high  voice,  pitched  for  Heppie's  old  ears,  rasped  me. 
Margery  closed  the  door,  and  we  surveyed  the  room 
together. 

The  bed  had  been  occupied;  its  coverings  had  been 
ithrown  back,  as  if  its  occupant  had  risen  hurriedly. 
[The  room  itself  was  in  a  state  of  confusion;  a  rocker 
lay  on  its  side,  and  Miss  Jane's  clothing,  folded  as 
she  had  taken  it  off,  had  slid  off  on  to  the  floor.  Her 
shoes  stood  neatly  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  a  bottle 
of  toilet  vinegar  had  been  upset,  pouring  a  stream  over 
the  marble  top  of  the  dresser  and  down  on  to  the 
floor.  Over  the  high  wooden  mantel  the  Maitland 
who  had  been  governor  of  the  state  years  ago  hung 
at  a  waggish  angle,  and  a  clock  had  been  pushed  aside 
and  stopped  at  half -past  one. 

Margery  stared  around  her  in  bewilderment.  Of 
course,  it  was  not  until  later  in  the  day  that  I  saw 
all  the  details.  My  first  impression  was  of  confu- 
sion and  disorder:  the  room  seemed  to  have  been 
the  scene  of  a  struggle.  The  overturned  furniture, 
the  clothes  on  the  floor,  the  picture,  coupled  with  the 
print  of  the  hand  on  the  staircase  and  Miss  Jane's 
disappearance,  all  seemed  to  point  to  one  thing. 

And  as  if  to  prove  it  conclusively,  Margery  picked 
up  Miss  Jane's  new  lace  cap  from  the  floor.  It  was 
crumpled  and  spotted  with  blood. 

"She  has  been  killed,"  Margery  said,  in  a  chok- 


LITTLE  MISS  JANE 69 

ing  voice.  "Killed,  and  she  had  not  an  enemy  in 
the  world!" 

"But  where  is  she?"  I  asked  stupidly. 

Margery  had  more  presence  of  mind  than  I  had; 
I  suppose  it  is  because  woman's  courage  is  mental 
and  man's  physical,  that  in  times  of  great  strain  wo- 
men always  make  the  better  showing.  While  I  was 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  staring  at  the 
confusion  around  me,  Margery  was  already  on  her 
knees,  looking  under  the  high,  four-post  bed.  Find- 
ing nothing  there  she  went  to  the  closet.  It  was  un- 
disturbed. Pathetic  rows  of  limp  black  dresses  and 
on  the  shelves  two  black  crepe  bonnets  were  mute 
reminders  of  the  little  old  lady.  But  there  was  noth- 
ing else  in  the  room. 

"Call  Robert,  the  gardener,"  Margery  said  quickly, 
"and  have  him  help  you  search  the  grounds  and  cel- 
lars. I  will  take  Bella  and  go  through  the  house. 
Above  everything,  keep  it  from  Aunt  Letitia  as  long 
as  possible." 

I  locked  the  door  into  the  disordered  room,  and 
with  my  head  whirling,  I  went  to  look  for  Robert. 

It  takes  a  short  time  to  search  an  acre  of  lawn  and 
shrubbery.  There  was  no  trace  of  the  missing  wo- 
man anywhere  outside  the  house,  and  from  Bella, 
as  she  sat  at  the  foot  of  the  front  stairs  with  her 
apron  over  her  head,  I  learned  in  a  monosyllable 
that  nothing  had  been  found  in  the  house.  Margery 
was  with  Miss  Letitia,  and  from  the  excited  conversa- 
tion I  knew  she  was  telling  her — not  harrowing  de- 


70    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

tails,  but  that  Miss  Jane  had  disappeared  during  the 
night 

The  old  lady  was  inclined  to  scoff  at  first. 

"Look  in  the  fruit  closet  in  the  store-room,"  I 
heard  her  say.  "She's  let  the  spring  lock  shut  on 
her  twice;  she  was  black  in  the  face  the  last  time 
;we  found  her." 

"I  did  look;  she's  not  there,"  Margery  screamed 
at  her. 

"Then  she's  out  looking  for  stump  water  to  take 
that  wart  off  her  neck.  She  said  yesterday  she  was 
going  for  some." 

"But  her  clothes  are  all  here,"  Margery  persisted. 
"We  think  some  one  must  have  got  in  the  house." 

"If  ail  her  clothes  are  there  she's  been  sleep-walk- 
ing," Miss  Letitia  said  calmly.  "We  used  to  have 
to  tie  her  by  a  cord  around  her  ankle  and  fasten  it 
to  the  bedpost.  When  she  tried  to  get  up  the  cord 
would  pull  and  wake  her." 

I  think  after  a  time,  however,  some  of  Margery's 
uneasiness  communicated  itself  to  the  older  woman. 
She  finished  dressing,  and  fumed  when  we  told  her 
we  had  locked  Miss  Jane's  door  and  mislaid  the  key. 
Finally,  Margery  got  her  settled  in  the  back  parlor 
with  some  peppermints  and  her  knitting;  she  had  a 
feeling,  she  said,  that  Jane  had  gone  after  the  stump 
water  and  lost  her  way,  and  I  told  Margery  to  keep 
her  in  that  state  of  mind  as  long  as  she  could. 

I  sent  for  Hunter  that  morning  and  he  came  at 
three  o'clock.  I  took  him  through  the  back  entrance 


LITTLE  MISS  JANE 71 

to  avoid  Miss  Letitia.  I  think  he  had  been  skeptical 
until  I  threw  open  the  door  and  showed  him  the  up- 
set chair,  the  old  lady's  clothing,  and  the  blood-stained 
lace  cap.  His  examination  was  quick  and  thorough. 
He  took  a  crumpled  sheet  of  note  paper  out  of  the 
waste-basket  and  looked  at  it,  then  he  stuffed  it  in 
his  pocket.  He  sniffed  the  toilet  water,  called  Mar- 
gery and  asked  her  if  any  clothing  was  missing,  and 
on  receiving  a  negative  answer  asked  if  any  shawls 
or  wraps  were  gone  from  the  halls  or  other  rooms. 
Margery  reported  nothing  missing. 

Before  he  left  the  room,  Hunter  went  back  and 
moved  the  picture  which  had  been  disturbed  over  the 
mantel.  What  he  saw  made  him  get  a  chair  and,  stand- 
ing on  it,  take  the  picture  from  its  nail.  Thus  ex- 
posed, the  wall  showed  an  opening  about  a  foot  square, 
and  perhaps  eighteen  inches  deep.  A  metal  door,  open- 
ing in,  was  unfastened  and  ajar,  and  just  inside  was 
a  copy  of  a  recent  sentimental  novel  and  a  bottle 
of  some  sort  of  complexion  cream.  In  spite  of  myself, 
I  smiled;  it  was  so  typical  of  the  dear  old  lady,  with 
the  heart  of  a  girl  and  a  skin  that  was  losing  its  roses. 
But  there  was  something  else  in  the  receptacle,  some- 
thing that  made  Margery  Fleming  draw  in  her  breath 
sharply,  and  made  Hunter  raise  his  eyebrows  a  little 
and  glance  at  me.  The  something  was  a  scrap  of  un- 
ruled white  paper,  and  on  it  the  figures  eleven  twenty- 
two! 


CHAPTER  vi 

A  FOUNTAIN  PEN 

TTARRY  WARDROP  came  back  from  the  city  at 
•*•  •*•  four  o'clock,  while  Hunter  was  in  the  midst  of 
his  investigation.  I  met  him  in  the  hall  and  told  him 
what  had  happened,  and  with  this  new  apprehension 
added  to  the  shock  of  the  night  before,  he  looked  as 
though  his  nerves  were  ready  to  snap. 

"Wardrop  was  a  man  of  perhaps  twenty-seven,  as  tall 
as  I,  although  not  so  heavy,  with  direct  blue  eyes  and 
fair  hair;  altogether  a  manly  and  prepossessing  sort 
of  fellow.  I  was  not  surprised  that  Margery  Fleming 
had  found  him  attractive — he  had  the  blond  hair  and 
off-hand  manner  that  women  seem  to  like.  I  am  dark, 
myself. 

He  seemed  surprised  to  find  Hunter  there,  and  not 
particularly  pleased,  but  he  followed  us  to  the  upper 
floor  and  watched  silently  while  Hunter  went  over 
the  two  rooms.  Besides  the  large  chest  of  drawers  in 
the  main  attic  Hunter  found  perhaps  half  a  dozen  drops 
of  blood,  and  on  the  edge  of  the  open  drawer  there 
were  traces  of  more.  In  the  inner  room  two  trunks 
had  been  moved  out  nearly  a  foot,  as  he  found  by  the 
faint  dust  that  had  been  under  them.  With  the  stain 

i  72 


A  FOUNTAIN  FEN 73 

on  the  stair  rail,  that  was  all  he  discovered,  and  it  was 
little  enough.  Then  he  took  out  his  note-book  and 
there  among  the  trunks  we  had  a  little  seance  of  our 
own,  in  which  Hunter  asked  questions,  and  whoever 
could  do  so  answered  them. 

"Have  you  a  pencil  or  pen,  Mr.  Knox?"  he  asked 
me,  but  I  had  none.  Wardrop  felt  his  pockets,  with 
no  better  success. 

"I  have  lost  my  fountain  pen  somewhere  around 
the  house  to-day,"  he  said  irritably.  "Here's  a  pencil 
( — not  much  of  one." 

Hunter  began  his  interrogations. 

"How  old  was  Miss  Maitland — Miss  Jane,  I  mean  ?" 

"Sixty-five,"  from  Margery. 

"She  had  always  seemed  rational?  Not  eccentric, 
or  childish?" 

"Not  at  all ;  the  sanest  woman  I  ever  knew."  This 
;from  Wardrop. 

"Has  she  ever,  to  your  knowledge,  received  any 
threatening  letters?" 

"Never  in  all  her  life,"  from  both  of  them  promptly. 

"You  heard  sounds,  you  say,  Miss  Fleming.  At 
what  time?" 

"About  half -past  one  or  perhaps  a  few  minutes 
later.  The  clock  struck  two  while  I  was  still  awake 
and  nervous." 

"This  person  who  was  walking  through  the  attics 
here — would  you  say  it  was  a  heavy  person  ?  A  man, 
I  mean?" 

Margery  stopped  to  think. 


74     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

"Yes,"  she  said  finally.  "It  was  very  stealthy,  but 
I  think  it  was  a  man's  step." 

"You  heard  no  sound  of  a  struggle?  No  voices? 
No  screams?" 

"None  at  all,"  she  said  positively.  And  I  added 
my  quota. 

"There  could  have  been  no  such  sounds,"  I  said. 
"I  sat  in  my  room  and  smoked  until  a  quarter  to  two. 
I  heard  nothing  until  then,  when  I  heard  Mr.  Ward- 
rop  trying  to  get  into  the  house..  I  went  down  to  ad- 
mit him,  and — I  found  the  front  door  open  about  aa 
inch." 

Hunter  wheeled  on  Wardrop. 

"A  quarter  to  two?"  he  asked.  "You  were  com- 
ing home  from — the  city?" 

"Yes,  from  the  station." 

Hunter  watched  him  closely. 

"The  last  train  gets  in  here  at  twelve-thirty,"  he 
said  slowly.  "Does  it  always  take  you  an  hour  and 
a  quarter  to  walk  the  three  squares  to  the  house?" 

Wardrop  flushed  uneasily,  and  I  could  see  Mar- 
gery's eyes  dilate  with  amazement.  As  for  me,  I 
could  only  stare. 

"I  did  not  come  directly  home,"  he  said,  almost 
defiantly. 

Hunter's  voice  was  as  smooth  as  silk. 

"Then — will  you  be  good  enough  to  tell  me  where 
you  did  go?"  he  asked.  "I  have  reasons  for  want- 
ing to  know." 

"Damn  your   reasons — I   beg  your  pardon,    Mar- 


A  FOUNTAIN  PEN 75 

gery.  Look  here,  Mr.  Hunter,  do  you  think  I  would 
hurt  a  hair  of  that  old  lady's  head?  Do  you  think 
I  came  here  last  night  and  killed  her,  or  whatever 
it  is  that  has  happened  to  her?  And  then  went  out 
and  tried  to  get  in  again  through  the  window  ?" 

"Not  necessarily,"  Hunter  said,  unruffled.  "It 
merely  occurred  to  me  that  we  have  at  least  an  hour  of 
your  time  last  night,  while  this  thing  was  going  on,  to 
account  for.  However,  we  can  speak  of  that  later.  I 
am  practically  certain  of  one  thing,  Miss  Maitland 
is  not  dead,  or  was  not  dead  when  she  was  taken  away 
from  this  house." 

"Taken  away!"  Margery  repeated.  "Then  you 
think  she  was  kidnapped?" 

"Well,  it  is  possible.  It's  a  puzzling  affair  all 
through.  You  are  certain  there  are  no  closets  or  un- 
used rooms  where,  if  there  had  been  a  murder,  the 
body  could  be  concealed." 

"I  never  heard  of  any,"  Margery  said,  but  I  saw 
Wardrop's  face  change  on  the  instant.  He  said  noth- 
ing, however,  but  stood  frowning  at  the  floor,  with 
his  hands  deep  in  his  coat  pockets. 

Margery  was  beginning  to  show  the  effect  of  the 
long  day's  strain;  she  began  to  cry  a  little,  and  with 
an  air  of  proprietorship  that  I  resented,  somehow, 
Wardrop  went  over  to  her. 

"You  are  going  to  lie  down,  Margery,"  he  said, 
holding  out  his  hand  to  help  her  up.  "Mrs.  Mellon 
will  come  over  to  Aunt  Letitia,  and  you  must  get 
iome  sleep." 


76     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

"Sleep!"  she  said  with  scorn,  as  he  helped  her  to 
her  feet.  "Sleep,  when  things  like  this  are  occur- 
ring! Father  first,  and  now  dear  old  Aunt  Jane! 
Harry,  do  you  know  where  my  father  is?" 

He  faced  her,  as  if  he  had  known  the  question  must: 
come  and  was  prepared  for  it. 

"I  know  that  he  is  all  right,  Margery.  He  has  been 
—out  of  town.  If  it  had  not  been  for  something  un- 
foreseen that — happened  within  the  last  few  hours,  he 
would  have  been  home  to-day." 

She  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief. 

"And  Aunt  Jane?"  she  asked  Hunter,  from  the 
head  of  the  attic  stairs,  "you  do  not  think  she  is 
dead?" 

"Not  until  we  have  found  something  more,"  he 
answered  tactlessly.  "It's  like  where  there's  smoke 
there's  fire;  where  there's  murder  there's  a  body." 

When  they  had  both  gone,  Hunter  sat  down  on  a 
trunk  and  drew  out  a  cigar  that  looked  like  a  bomb. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it  ?"  I  asked,  when  he  showed 
no  disposition  to  talk. 

"I'll  be  damned  if  I  know,"  he  responded,  looking 
around  for  some  place  to  expectorate  and  finding  none. 

"The  window,"  I  suggested,  and  he  went  over  to  it. 
When  he  came  back  he  had  a  rather  peculiar  expres- 
sion. He  sat  down  and  puffed  for  a  moment. 

"In  the  first  place,"  he  began,  "we  can  take  it  for 
granted  that,  unless  she  was  crazy  or  sleep-walking, 
she  didn't  go  out  in  her  night-clothes,  and  there's 
nothing  of  hers  missing.  She  wasn't  taken  in  a  car- 


A  FOUNTAIN  PEN 77 

riage,  providing  she  was  taken  at  all.  There's  not  a 
mark  of  wheels  on  that  drive  newer  than  a  week,  and 
besides,  you  say  you  heard  nothing." 

"Nothing,"  I  said  positively. 

"Then,  unless  she  went  away  in  a  balloon,  where 
it  wouldn't  matter  what  she  had  on,  she  is  still  around 
the  premises.  It  depends  on  how  badly  she  was  hurt." 

"Are  you  sure  it  was  she  who  was  hurt?"  I  asked. 
"That  print  of  a  hand — that  is  not  Miss  Jane's." 

In  reply  Hunter  led  the  way  down  the  stairs  to 
the  place  where  the  stain  on  the  stair  rail  stood  out, 
ugly  and  distinct.  He  put  his  own  heavy  hand  on 
the  rail  just  below  it. 

"Suppose,"  he  said,  "suppose  you  grip  something 
very  hard,  what  happens  to  your  hand?" 

"It  spreads,"  I  acknowledged,  seeing  what  he 
meant. 

"Now,  look  at  that  stain.  Look  at  the  short  fingers 
• — why,  it's  a  child's  hand  beside  mine.  The  breadth 
is  from  pressure.  It  might  be  figured  out  this  way. 
The  fingers,  you  notice,  point  down  the  stairs.  In 
some  way,  let  us  say,  the  burglar,  for  want  of  a  better 
name,  gets  into  the  house.  He  used  a  ladder  resting 
against  that  window  by  the  chest  of  drawers." 

"Ladder!"  I  exclaimed. 

"Yes,  there  is  a  pruning  ladder  there.  Now  then — • 
he  comes  down  these  stairs,  and  he  has  a  definite  ob- 
ject. He  knows  of  something  valuable  in  that  cubby 
hole  over  the  mantel  in  Miss  Jane's  room.  How  does 
he  get  in  ?  The  door  into  the  upper  hall  is  closed  and 


78     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

bolted,  but  the  door  into  the  bath-room  is  open.  From 
there  another  door  leads  into  the  bedroom,  and  it  has 
no  bolt — only  a  key.  That  kind  of  a  lock  is  only  a 
three-minutes  delay,  or  less.  Now  then,  Miss  Mait- 
land  was  a  light  sleeper.  When  she  wakened  she 
was  too  alarmed  to  scream ;  she  tried  to  get  to  the  door 
and  was  intercepted.  Finally  she  got  out  the  way  the 
intruder  got  in,  and  ran  along  the  hall.  Every  door 
was  locked.  In  a  frenzy  she  ran  up  to  the  attic  stairs 
and  was  captured  up  there.  Which  bears  out  Miss 
Margery's  story  of  the  footsteps  back  and  forward." 

"Good  heavens,  what  an  awful  thing!"  I  gasped. 
"And  I  was  sitting  smoking  just  across  the  hall." 

"He  brings  her  down  the  stairs  again,  probably  half 
dragging  her.  Once,  she  catches  hold  of  the  stair  rail, 
and  holds  desperately  to  it,  leaving  the  stain  here." 

"But  why  did  he  bring  her  down?"  I  asked  bewil- 
dered. "Why  wouldn't  he  take  what  he  was  after 
and  get  away?" 

Hunter  smoked  and  meditated. 

"She  probably  had  to  get  the  key  of  the  iron  door," 
he  suggested.  "It  was  hiddan,  and  time  was  valuable. 
If  there  was  a  scapegrace  member  of  the  family,  for 
instance,  who  knew  where  the  old  lady  kept  money, 
and  who  needed  it  badly ;  who  knew  all  about  the  house, 
and  who — " 

"Fleming!"  I  exclaimed,  aghast. 

"Or  even  our  young  friend,  Wardrop,"  Hunter  said 
quietly.  "He  has  an  hour  to  account  for.  The  try- 
ing to  get  in  may  have  been  a  blind,  and  how  do 


A  FOUNTAIN  PEN 79 

you  know  that  what  he  says  was  stolen  out  of  his 
satchel  was  not  what  he  had  just  got  from  the  iron 
box  over  the  mantel  in  Miss  Maitland's  room?" 

I  was  dizzy  with  trying  to  follow  Hunter's  facile 
imagination.  The  thing  we  were  trying  to  do  was 
to  find  the  old  lady,  and,  after  all,  here  we  brought 
up  against  the  same  impasse. 

"Then  where  is  she  now?"  I  asked.  He  meditated. 
He  had  sat  down  on  the  narrow  stairs,  and  was  rub- 
bing his  chin  with  a  thoughtful  fore-finger.  "One- 
thirty,  Miss  Margery  says,  when  she  heard  the  noise. 
One-forty-five  when  you  heard  Wardrop  at  the  shut- 
ters. I  tell  you,  Knox,  it  is  one  of  two  things :  either 
that  woman  is  dead  somewhere  in  this  house,  or  she 
ran  out  of  the  hall  door  just  before  you  went  down- 
stairs, and  in  that  case  the  Lord  only  knows  where  she 
is.  If  there  is  a  room  anywhere  that  we  have  not  ex- 
plored—" 

"I  am  inclined  to  think  there  is,"  I  broke  in,  think- 
ing of  Wardrop's  face  a  few  minutes  before.  And 
just  then  Wardrop  himself  joined  us.  He  closed  the 
door  at  the  foot  of  the  boxed-in  staircase,  and  came 
quietly  up. 

"You  spoke  about  an  unused  room  or  a  secret  closet, 
Mr.  Hunter,"  he  said,  without  any  resentment  in  his 
tone.  "We  have  nothing  so  sensational  as  that,  but 
the  old  house  is  full  of  queer  nooks  and  crannies,  and 
perhaps,  in  one  of  them,  we  might  find — "  he  stopped 
and  gulped.  Whatever  Hunter  might  think,  what- 
ever I  might  have  against  Harry  Wardrop,  I  deter- 


80    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

mined  then  that  he  had  had  absolutely  nothing  to  do 
with  little  Miss  Maitland's  strange  disappearance. 

The  first  place  we  explored  was  a  closed  and  walled- 
in  wine-cellar,  long  unused,  and  to  which  access  was 
gained  by  a  small  window  in  the  stone  foundation 
of  the  house.  The  cobwebs  over  the  window  made  it 
practically  an  impossible  place,  but  we  put  Robert,  the 
gardener,  through  it,  in  spite  of  his  protests. 

"There's  nothin'  there,  I  tell  you,"  he  protested,  with 
one  leg  over  the  coping.  "God  only  knows  what's 
down  there,  after  all  these  years.  I've  been  livin'  here 
with  the  Miss  Maitlands  for  twenty  year,  and  I  ain't 
never  been  put  to  goin'  down  into  cellars  on  the  end 
of  a  rope." 

He  went,  because  we  were  three  to  his  one,  but  he 
Was  up  again  in  sixty  seconds,  with  the  announcement 
that  the  place  was  as  bare  as  the  top  of  his  head. 

We  moved  every  trunk  in  the  store-room,  although 
it  would  have  been  a  moral  impossibility  for  any  one 
to  have  done  it  the  night  before  without  rousing  the 
entire  family,  and  were  thus  able  to  get  to  and  open 
a  large  closet,  which  proved  to  contain  neatly  tied 
and  labeled  packages  of  religious  weeklies,  beginning 
in  the  sixties. 

The  grounds  had  been  gone  over  inch  by  inch,  with- 
out affording  any  clue,  and  now  the  three  of  us  faced 
one  another.  The  day  was  almost  gone,  and  we  were 
exactly  where  we  started.  Hunter  had  sent  men 
through  the  town  and  the  adjacent  countryside,  but  no 
Word  had  come  from  them.  Miss  Letitia  had  at  last 


A  FOUNTAIN  PEN 81 

succumbed  to  the  suspense  and  had  gon«  to  bed,  where 
she  lay  quietly  enough,  as  is  the  way  with  the  old,  but 
so  mild  that  she  was  alarming. 

At  five  o'clock  Hawes  called  me  up  from  the  office 
and  almost  tearfully  implored  me  to  come  back  and 
attend  to  my  business.  When  I  said  it  was  impossible, 
I  could  hear  him  groan  as  he  hung  up  the  receiver. 
Hawes  is  of  the  opinion  that  by  keeping  fresh  maga- 
zines in  my  waiting-room  and  by  persuading  me  to  the 
extravagance  of  Turkish  rugs,  that  he  has  built  my 
practice  to  its  present  flourishing  state.  When  I  left 
the  telephone,  Hunter  was  preparing  to  go  back  to 
town  and  Wardrop  was  walking  up  and  dowm  the  hall. 
Suddenly  Wardrop  stopped  his  uneasy  promenade  and 
hailed  the  detective  on  his  way  to  the  door. 

"By  George,"  he  exclaimed,  "I  forgot  to  show  you 
the  closet  under  the  attic  stairs!" 

We  hurried  up  and  Wardrop  showed  us  the  panel 
in  the  hall,  which  slid  to  one  side  when  he  pushed  a 
bolt  under  the  carpet.  The  blackness  of  the  closet 
was  horrible  in  its  suggestion  to  me.  I  stepped  back 
while  Hunter  struck  a  match  and  looked  in. 

The  closet  was  empty. 

"Better  not  go  in,"  Wardrop  said.  "It  hasn't  been 
used  for  years  and  it's  black  with  dust.  I  found  it 
myself  and  showed  it  to  Miss  Jane.  I  don't  believe 
Miss  Letitia  knows  it  is  here." 

"It  hasn't  been  used  for  years!"  reflected  Hunter, 
looking  around  him  curiously.  "I  suppose  it  has  been 
some  time  since  you  were  in  here,  Mr.  Wardrop  ?" 


82     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

"Several  years,"  Wardrop  replied  carelessly.  "I 
used  to  keep  contraband  here  in  my  college  days,  cig- 
arettes and  that  sort  of  thing.  I  haven't  been  in  it 
since  then." 

Hunter  took  his  foot  off  a  small  object  that  lay  on 
the  floor,  and  picking  it  up,  held  it  out  to  Wardrop, 
with  a  grim  smile. 

"Here  is  the  fountain  pen  you  lost  this  morning, 
Mr.  Wardrop,"  he  said  quietly. 


CHAPTER  VII 

CONCERNING  MARGERY 

WHEN  Hunter  had  finally  gone  at  six  o'clock, 
summoned  to-  town  on  urgent  business,  we 
were  very  nearly  where  we  had  been  before  he  came. 
He  could  only  give  us  theories,  and  after  all,  what 
we  wanted  was  fact — and  Miss  Jane.  Many  things, 
however,  that  he  had  unearthed  puzzled  me. 

Why  had  Wardrop  lied  about  so  small  a  matter  as 
his  fountain  pen?  The  closet  was  empty:  what  object 
could  he  have  had  in  saying  he  had  not  been  in  it  for 
years?  I  found  that  my  belief  in  his  sincerity  of  the 
night  before  was  going.  If  he  had  been  lying  then, 
I  owed  him  something  for  a  lump  on  my  head  that 
made  it  difficult  for  me  to  wear  my  hat. 

It  would  have  been  easy  enough  for  him  to  rob 
himself,  and,  if  he  had  an  eye  for  the  theatrical,  to 
work  out  just  some  such  plot.  It  was  even  possible 
that  he  had  hidden  for  a  few  hours  in  the  secret  closet 
the  contents  of  the  Russia  leather  bag.  But,  whatever 
Wardrop  might  or  might  not  be,  he*  gave  me  little 
chance  to  find  out,  for  he  left  the  house  before  Hunter 
did  that  afternoon,  and  it  was  later,  and  under  strange 
circumstances,  that  I  met  him  again. 

83 


84     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

Hunter  had  not  told  me  what  was  on  the  paper  he 
had  picked  out  of  the  basket  in  Miss  Jane's  room,  and 
I  knew  he  was  as  much  puzzled  as  I  at  the  scrap  in  the 
little  cupboard,  with  eleven  twenty-two  on  it.  It  oc- 
curred to  me  that  it  might  mean  the  twenty-second  day 
of  the  eleventh  month,  perhaps  something  that  had 
happened  on  some  momentous,  long-buried  twenty- 
second  of  November.  But  this  was  May,  and  the  find- 
ing of  two  slips  bearing  the  same  number  was  too 
unusual. 

After  Hunter  left  I  went  back  to  the  closet  under 
the  upper  stairs,  and  with  some  difficulty  got  the  panel 
open,  again.  The  space  inside,  perhaps  eight  feet 
high  at  one  end  and  four  at  the  other,  was  empty. 
There  was  a  row  of  hooks,  as  if  at  some  time  clothing 
had  been  hung  there,  and  a  flat  shelf  at  one  end,  gray 
with  dust. 

I  struck  another  match  and  examined  the  shelf. 
On  its  surface  were  numerous  scratchings  in  the  dust 
layer,  but  at  one  end,  marked  out  as  if  drawn  on  a 
blackboard,  was  a  rectangular  outline,  apparently  that 
of  a  small  box,  and  fresh. 

My  match  burned  my  fingers  and  I  dropped  it  to 
the  floor,  where  it  expired  in  a  sickly  blue  flame.  At 
the  last,  however,  it  died  heroically — like  an  old  man 
to  whom  his  last  hours  bring  back  some  of  the  glory 
of  his  prime,  burning  brightly  for  a  second  and  then 
fading  into  darkness.  The  last  flash  showed  me,  on 
the  floor  of  the  closet  and  wedged  between  two  boards, 


CONCERNING  MARGERY          8£ 

a  small  white  globule.  It  did  not  need  another  match 
to  tell  me  it  was  a  pearl. 

I  dug  it  out  carefully  and  took  it  to  my  room.  In 
the  daylight  thtre  I  recognized  it  as  an  unstrung 
pearl  of  fair  size  and  considerable  value.  There  could 
hardly  be  a  doubt  that  I  had  stumbled  on  one  of  the 
stolen  gems ;  but  a  pearl  was  only  a  pearl  to  na«,  after 
all.  I  didn't  feel  any  of  the  inspirations  which  fiction 
detectives  experience  when  they  happen  on  an  import- 
tant  clue. 

I  lit  a  cigar  and  put  the  pearl  on  the  table  in  front 
of  me.  But  no  explanation  formed  itself  in  the 
tobacco  smoke.  If  Wardrop  took  the  pearls,  I  kept  re- 
peating over  and  over,  if  Wardrop  took  the  pearls, 
who  took  Miss  Jane  ? 

I  tried  to  forget  the  pearls,  and  to  fathom  the 
connection  between  Miss  Maitland's  disappearance  and 
the  absence  of  her  brother-in-law.  The  scrap  of 
paper,  eleven  twenty-two,  must  connect  them,  but 
how?  A  family  scandal?  Dismissed  on  the  instant. 
There  could  be  nothing  that  would  touch  the  virginal 
remoteness  of  that  little  old  lady.  Insanity?  Well, 
Miss  Jane  might  have  had  a  sudden  aberration  and 
wandered  away,  but  that  would  leave  Fleming  out, 
and  the  paper  dragged  him  in.  A  common  enemy? 

I  smoked  and  considered  for  some  time  over  this. 
An  especially  malignant  foe  might  rob,  or  even  murder, 
but  it  was  almost  ludicrous  to  think  of  his  carrying 
away  by  force  Miss  Jane's  ninety  pounds  of  austere 


86     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

flesh.  The  solution,  had  it  not  been  for  the  blood- 
stains, might  have  been  a  peaceful  one,  leaving  out 
the  pearls,  altogether,  but  later  developments  showed 
that  the  pearls  refused  to  be  omitted.  To  my  mind, 
however,  at  that  time,  the  issue  seemed  a  double  one. 
I  believed  that  some  one,  perhaps  Harry  Wardrop,  had 
stolen  the  pearls,  hidden  them  in  the  secret  closet,  and 
disposed  of  them  later.  I  made  a  note  to  try  to  follow 
up  the  missing  pearls. 

Then — I  clung  to  the  theory  that  Miss  Maitland 
had  been  abducted  and  was  being  held  for  ransom. 
If  I  could  have  found  traces  of  a  vehicle  of  any  sort 
near  the  house,  I  would  almost  have  considered  my 
contention  proved.  That  any  one  could  have  entered 
the  house,  intimidated  and  even  slightly  injured  the 
old  lady,  and  taken  her  quietly  out  the  front  door, 
while  I  sat  smoking  in  my  room  with  the  window 
open,  and  Wardrop  trying  the  shutters  at  the  side  of 
the  house,  seemed  impossible.  Yet  there  were  the 
stains,  the  confusion,  the  open  front  door  to  prove  it. 

But — and  I  stuck  here — the  abductor  who  would 
steal  an  old  woman,  and  take  her  out  into  the  May 
night  without  any  covering — not  even  shoes — clad 
only  in  her  night-clothes,  would  run  an  almost  cer- 
tain risk  of  losing  his  prize  by  pneumonia.  For  a 
second  search  had  shown  not  an  article  of  wearing 
apparel  missing  from  the  house.  Even  the  cedar 
chests  were  undisturbed ;  not  a  blanket  was  gone. 

Just  before  dinner  I  made  a  second  round  of  the 
grounds,  this  time  looking  for  traces  of  wheels.  I 


CONCERNING  MARGERY          87 

found  none  near-by,  and  it  occurred  to  me  that  the 
boldest  highwayman  would  hardly  drive  up  to  the 
door  for  his  booty.  When  I  had  extended  my  search 
to  cover  the  unpaved  lane  that  separated  the  back  of 
the  Maitland  place  from  its  nearest  neighbor,  I  was 
more  fortunate. 

The  morning  delivery  wagons  had  made  fresh  trails, 
and  at  first  I  despaired.  I  sauntered  up  the  lane  to  the 
right,  however,  and  about  a  hundred  feet  beyond  the 
boundary  hedge  I  found  circular  tracks,  broad  and 
deep,  where  an  automobile  had  backed  and  turned. 
The  lane  was  separated  by  high  hedges  of  osage  orange 
from  the  properties  on  either  side,  and  each  house  in 
that  neighborhood  had  a  drive  of  its  own,  which  en- 
tered from  the  main  street,  circled  the  house  and  went 
out  as  it  came. 

There  was  no  reason,  or,  so  far  as  I  could  see,  no 
legitimate  reason,  why  a  car  should  have  stopped  there, 
yet  it  had  stopped  and  for  some  time.  Deeper  tracks 
in  the  sand  at  the  side  of  the  lane  showed  that. 

I  felt  that  I  had  made  some  progress:  I  had  found 
where  the  pearls  had  been  hidden  after  the  theft,  and 
this  put  Bella  out  of  the  question.  And  I  had  found 
• — or  thought  I  had — the  way  in  which  Miss  Jane  had 
been  taken  away  from  Bellwood. 

I  came  back  past  the  long  rear  wing  of  the  house 
which  contained,  I  presume,  the  kitchen  and  the  other 
mysterious  regions  which  only  women  and  architects 
comprehend.  A  long  porch  ran  the  length  of  the 
wing,  and  as  I  passed  I  heard  my  name  called. 


88     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

"In  here  in  the  old  laundry,"  Margery's  voice  re- 
peated, and  I  retraced  my  steps  and  went  up  on  the 
porch.  At  the  very  end  of  the  wing,  dismantled, 
piled  at  the  sides  with  firewood  and  broken  furniture, 
was  an  old  laundry.  Its  tubs  were  rusty,  its  walls 
mildewed  and  streaked,  and  it  exhaled  the  musty  odor 
of  empty  houses.  On  the  floor  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  undeniably  dirty  and  dishevelled,  sat  Margery 
Fleming. 

"I  thought  you  were  never  coming,"  she  said 
petulantly.  "I  have  been  here  alone  for  an  hour." 

"I'm  sure  I  never  guessed  it,"  I  apologized.  "I 
should  have  been  only  too  glad  to  come  and  sit  with 
you." 

She  was  fumbling  with  her  hair,  which  threatened  to 
come  down  any  minute,  and  which  hung,  loosely 
knotted,  over  one  small  ear. 

"I  hate  to  look  ridiculous,"  she  said  sharply,  "and 
I  detest  being  laughed  at.  I've  been  crying,  and  I 
haven't  any  handkerchief." 

I  proffered  mine  gravely,  and  she  took  it.  She 
wiped  the  dusty  streaks  off  her  cheeks  and  pinned  her 
hair  in  a  funny  knob  on  top  of  her  head  that  would 
have  made  any  other  woman  look  like  a  caricature. 
But  still  she  sat  on  the  floor. 

"Now,"  she  said,  when  she  had  jabbed  the  last  hair- 
pin into  place  and  tucked  my  handkerchief  into  her 
belt,  "if  you  have  been  sufficiently  amused,  perhapt 
you  will  help  me  out  of  here." 

"Out  of  where?" 


CONCERNING  MARGERY          89 

"Do  you  suppose  I'm  sitting  here  because  I  like  it  ?" 

"You  have  sprained  your  ankle,"  I  said,  with  sud- 
den alarm. 

In  reply  she  brushed  aside  her  gown,  and  for  the 
first  time  I  saw  what  had  occurred.  She  was  sitting 
half  over  a  trap-door  in  the  floor,  which  had  closed 
on  her  skirts  and  held  her  fast. 

"The  wretched  thing!"  she  wailed.  "And  I  have 
called  until  I  am  hoarse.  I  could  shake  Heppie! 
Then  I  tried  to  call  you  mentally.  I  fixed  my  mind 
on  you  and  said  over  and  over,  'Come,  please  come.' 
Didn't  you  feel  anything  at  all  ?" 

"Good  old  trap-door !"  I  said.  "I  know  I  was  think- 
ing about  you,  but  I  never  suspected  the  reason.  And 
then  to  have  walked  past  here  twenty  minutes  ago! 
Why  didn't  you  call  me  then?"  I  was  tugging  at 
the  door,  but  it  was  fast,  with  the  skirts  to  hold  it  tight. 

"I  looked  such  a  fright,"  she  explained.  "Can't 
you  pry  it  up  with  something?" 

I  tried  several  things  without  success,  while  Mar- 
gery explained  her  plight. 

"I  was  sure  Robert  had  not  looked  carefully  in 
the  old  wine  cellar,"  she  said,  "and  then  I  remembered 
this  trap-door  opened  into  it.  It  was  the  only  place 
we  hadn't  explored  thoroughly.  I  put  a  ladder  down 
and  looked  around.  Ugh !" 

"What  did  you  find?"  I  asked,  as  my  third  broom 
stick  lever  snapped. 

"Nothing — only  I  know  now  where  Aunt  Letitia's 
Edwin  Booth  went  to.  He  was  a  cat,"  she  explained, 


90    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

"and  Aunt  Letitia  made  the  railroad  pay  for  killing 
him." 

I  gave  up  finally  and  stood  back. 

"Couldn't  you — er — get  out  of  your  garments,  and — • 
I  could  go  out  and  close  the  door,"  I  suggested  deli- 
cately. "You  see  you  are  sitting  on  the  trap-door, 
and—" 

But  Margery  scouted  the  suggestion  with  the  proper 
scorn,  and  demanded  a  pair  of  scissors.  She  cut  her- 
self loose  with  vicious  snips,  while  I  paraphrased  the 
old  nursery  rhyme,  "She  cut  her  petticoats  all  around 
about."  Then  she  gathered  up  her  outraged  gar- 
ments and  fled  precipitately. 

She  was  unusually  dignified  at  dinner.  Neither 
of  us  cared  to  eat,  and  the  empty  places — Wardrop's 
and  Miss  Letitia' s — Miss  Jane's  had  not  been  set — 
were  like  skeletons  at  the  board. 

It  was  Margery  who,  after  our  pretense  of  a  meal, 
voiced  the  suspicion  I  think  we  both  felt. 

"It  is  a  strange  time  for  Harry  to  go  away,"  she 
said  quietly,  from  the  library  window. 

"He  probably  has  a  reason." 

"Why  don't  you  say  it?"  she  said  suddenly,  turn- 
ing on  me.  "I  know  what  you  think.  You  believe 
he  only  pretended  he  was  robbed!" 

"I  should  be  sorry  to  think  anything  of  the  kind," 
I  began.  But  she  did  not  allow  me  to  finish. 

"I  saw  what  you  thought,"  she  burst  out  bitterly. 
"The  detective  almost  laughed  in  his  face.  Oh,  you 
needn't  think  I  don't  know:  I  saw  him  last  night, 


CONCERNING  MARGERY          91 

and  the  woman  too.    He  brought  her  right  to  the  gate. 
You  treat  me  like  a  child,  all  of  you!" 

In  sheer  amazement  I  was  silent.  So  a  new  char- 
acter had  been  introduced  into  the  play — a  woman, 
too! 

i  "You  were  not  the  only  person,  Mr.  Knox,  who 
could  not  sleep  last  night,"  she  went  on.  "Oh,  I 
know  a  great  many  things.  I  know  about  the  pearls, 
and  what  you  think  about  them,  and  I  know  more 
than  that,  I — " 

She  stopped  then.  She  had  said  more  than  she 
intended  to,  and  all  at  once  her  bravado  left  her,  and 
she  looked  like  a  frightened  child.  I  went  over  to 
her  and  took  one  trembling  hand. 

"I  wish  you  didn't  know  all  those  things,"  I  said. 
"But  since  you  do,  won't  you  let  me  share  the  burden  ? 
pThe  only  reason  I  am  still  here  is — on  your  account." 

I  had  a  sort  of  crazy  desire  to  take  her  in  my  arms 
and  comfort  her,  Wardrop  or  no  Wardrop.  But  at 
that  moment,  luckily  for  me,  perhaps,  Miss  Letitia's 
shrill  old  voice  came  from  the  stairway. 

"Get   out  of   my  way,   Heppie,"   she  was   saying 
tartly.     "I'm  not  on  my  death-bed  yet,  not  if  I  know 
:  it.     Where's  Knox?" 

Whereupon  I  obediently  went  out  and  helped  Miss 
Letitia  into  the  room. 

"I  think  I  know  where  Jane  is,"  she  said,  putting 
down  her  cane  with  a  jerk.  "I  don't  know  why  I 
didn't  think  about  it  before.  She's  gone  to  get  her 
new  teeth;  she's  been  talkin'  of  it  for  a  month.  Not 


92    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

but  what  her  old  teeth  would  have  done  well  enough." 

"She  would  hardly  go  in  the  middle  of  the  night," 
I  returned.  "She  was  a  very  timid  woman,  wasn't 
she?" 

"She  wasn't  raised  right,"  Miss  Letitia  said  with  a 
shake  of  her  head.  "She's  the  baby,  and  the  young- 
est's  always  spoiled." 

"Have  you  thought  that  this  might  be  more  than 
it  appears  to  be?"  I  was  feeling  my  way:  she  was 
a  very  old  woman.  "It — for  instance,  it  might  be 
abduction,  kidnapping — for  a  ransom." 

"Ransom !"  Miss  Letitia  snapped.  "Mr.  Knox,  my 
father  made  his  money  by  working  hard  for  it:  I 
haven't  wasted  it — not  that  I  know  of.  And  if  Jane 
Maitland  was  fool  enough  to  be  abducted,  she'll  stay 
a  while  before  I  pay  anything  for  her.  It  looks  to 
me  as  if  this  detective  business  was  going  to  be  expen- 
sive, anyhow." 

My  excuse  for  dwelling  with  such  attention  to  de- 
tail on  the  preliminary  story,  the  disappearance  of 
Miss  Jane  Maitland  and  the  peculiar  circumstances 
surrounding  it,  will  have  to  find  its  justification*  in  the« 
events  that  followed  it.  Miss  Jane  herself,  and  the 
solution  of  that  mystery,  solved  the  even  more  tragic 
one  in  which  we  were  about  to  be  involved.  I  say 
we,  because  it  was  borne  in  on  me  at  about  that  time, 
that  the  things  that  concerned  Margery  Fleming  must 
concern  me  henceforth,  whether  I  willed  it  so  or  other- 
wise. For  the  first  time  in  my  life  a  woman's  step 
on  the  stair  was  like  no  other  sound  in  the  world. 


TOO  LATE 

AT  nine  o'clock  that  night  things  remained  about 
the  same.  The  man  Hunter  had  sent  to  investi- 
gate the  neighborhood  and  the  country  just  outside  of 
the  town,  came  to  the  house  about  eight,  and  reported 
"nothing  discovered."  Miss  Letitia  went  to  bed  early, 
and  Margery  took  her  up-stairs. 

Hunter  called  me  by  telephone  from  town. 

"Can  you  take  the  nine-thirty  up?"  he  asked.  I 
looked  at  my  watch. 

"Yes,  I  think  so.     Is  there  anything  new?" 

"Not  yet;  there  may  be.  Take  a  cab  at  the  station 
and  come  to  the  corner  of  Mulberry  Street  and  Park 
Lane.  You'd  better  dismiss  your  cab  there  and  wait 
for  me." 

I  sent  word  up-stairs  by  Bella,  who  was  sitting  in 
the  kitchen,  her  heavy  face  sodden  with  grief,  and 
taking  my  hat  and  raincoat — it  was  raining  a  light 
spring  drizzle — I  hurried  to  the  station.  In  twenty- 
four  minutes  I  was  in  the  city,  and  perhaps  twelve 
minutes  more  saw  me  at  the  designated  corner,  with 
my  cab  driving  away  and  the  rain  dropping  off  the 
rim  of  my  hat  and  splashing  on  my  shoulders. 

93 


94    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

I  found  a  sort  of  refuge  by  standing  under  the 
wooden  arch  of  a  gate,  and  it  occurred  to  me  that, 
for  all  my  years  in  the  city,  this  particular  neighbor- 
hood was  altogether  strange  to  me.  Two  blocks  away, 
in  any  direction,  I  would  have  been  in  familiar  ter- 
ritory again. 

Back  of  me  a  warehouse  lifted  six  or  seven  gloomy 
stories  to  the  sky.  The  gate  I  stood  in  was  evidently 
the  entrance  to  its  yard,  and  in  fact,  some  uncom- 
fortable movement  of  mine  just  then  struck  the  latch, 
and  almost  precipitated  me  backward  by  its  sudden 
opening.  Beyond  was  a  yard  full  of  shadowy  wheels 
and  packing  cases;  the  street  lights  did  not  penetrate 
there,  and  with  an  uneasy  feeling  that  almost  any- 
thing, in  this  none  too  savory  neighborhood,  might  be 
awaiting  there,  I  struck  a  match  and  looked  at  my 
watch.  It  was  twenty  minutes  after  ten.  Once  a 
man  turned  the  corner  and  came  toward  me,  his  head 
down,  his  long  ulster  flapping  around  his  legs.  Con- 
fident that  it  was  Hunter,  I  stepped  out  and  touched 
him  on  the  arm.  He  wheeled  instantly,  and  in  the 
light  which  shone  on  his  face,  I  saw  my  error. 

"Excuse  me,"  I  mumbled,  "I  mistook  my  man." 

He  went  on  again  without  speaking,  only  pulling 
his  soft  hat  down  lower  over  his  face.  I  looked  after 
him  until  he  turned  the  next  corner,  and  I  knew  I 
had  not  been  mistaken ;  it  was  Wardrop. 

The  next  minute  Hunter  appeared,  from  the  same 
direction,  and  we  walked  quickly  together.  I  told 
him  who  the  man  just  ahead  had  been,  and  he  nod- 


TOO  LATE  95 


ded  without  surprise.  But  before  we  turned  the  next 
corner  he  stopped. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  the  White  Cat?"  he  asked. 
"Little  political  club?" 

"Never." 

"I'm  a  member  of  it,"  he  went  on  rapidly.  "It's 
run  by  the  city  ring,  or  rather  it  runs  itself.  Be  a 
good  fellow  while  you're  there,  and  keep  your  eyes 
open.  It's  a  queer  joint." 

The  corner  we  turned  found  us  on  a  narrow,  badly 
paved  street.  The  broken  windows  of  the  warehouse 
still  looked  down  on  us,  and  across  the  street  was  an 
ice  factory,  with  two  deserted  wagons  standing  along 
the  curb.  As  well  as  I  could  see  for  the  darkness,  a 
lumber  yard  stretched  beyond  the  warehouse,  its  piles 
of  boards  giving  off  in  the  rain  the  aromatic  odor  of 
fresh  pine. 

At  a  gate  in  the  fence  beyond  the  warehouse  Hunter 
stopped.  It  was  an  ordinary  wooden  gate  and  it 
opened  with  a  thumb  latch.  Beyond  stretched  a  long, 
narrow,  brick-paved  alleyway,  perhaps  three  feet  wide, 
and  lighted  by  the  merest  glimmer  of  a  light  ahead. 
Hunter  went  on  regardless  of  puddles  in  the  brick 
paving,  and  I  stumbled  after  him.  As  we  advanced, 
I  c'ould  see  that  the  light  was  a  single  electric  bulb, 
hung  over  a  second  gate.  While  Hunter  fumbled  for 
a  key  in  his  pocket,  I  had  time  to  see  that  this  gate 
had  a  Yale  lock,  was  provided,  at  the  side,  with  an 
electric  bell  button,  and  had  a  letter  slot  cut  in  it. 

Hunter  opened  the  gate  and  preceded  me  through 


96    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

it.  The  gate  swung  to  and  clicked  behind  me.  After 
the  gloom  of  the  passageway,  the  small  brick-paved 
yard  seemed  brilliant  with  lights.  Two  wires  were 
strung  its  length,  dotted  with  many  electric  lamps. 
In  a  corner  a  striped  tent  stood  out  in  grotesque  re- 
lief;  it  seemed  to  be  empty,  and  the  weather  was  an 
easy  explanation.  From  the  two-story  house  beyond 
there  came  suddenly  a  burst  of  piano  music  and  a  none 
too  steady  masculine  voice.  Hunter  turned  to  me, 
with  his  foot  on  the  wooden  steps. 

"Above  everything  else,"  he  warned,  "keep  your 
temper.  Nobody  gives  a  hang  in  here  whether  you're 
the  mayor  of  the  town,  the  champion  poolplayer  of 
the  first  ward,  or  the  roundsman  on  the  beat." 

The  door  at  the  top  of  the  steps  was  also  Yale- 
locked.  We  stepped  at  once  into  the  kitchen,  from 
which  I  imagined  that  the  house  faced  on  another 
street,  and  that  for  obvious  reasons  only  its  rear  en- 
trance was  used.  The  kitchen  was  bright  and  clean; 
it  was  littered,  however,  with  half-cut  loaves  of  bread, 
glasses  and  empty  bottles.  Over  the  range  a  man  in 
his  shirt  sleeves  was  giving  his  whole  attention  to  a 
slice  of  ham,  sizzling  on  a  skillet,  and  at  a  table  near- 
by a  young  fellow,  with  his  hair  cut  in  a  barber's 
oval  over  the  back  of  his  neck,  was  spreading  slices  of 
bread  and  cheese  with  mustard. 

"How  are  you,  Mr.  Mayor?"  Hunter  said,  as  he 
shed  his  raincoat.  "This  is  Mr.  Knox,  the  man  who's 
engineering  the  Star-Eagle  fight." 


TOO  LATE  97 


The  man  over  the  range  wiped  one  greasy  hand 
and  held  it  out  to  me. 

"The  Cat  is  purring  a  welcome,"  he  said,  indicating 
the  frying  ham,  "If  my  cooking  turns  out  right  I'll 
ask  you  to  have  some  ham  with  me.  I  don't  know 
why  in  thunder  it  gets  black  in  the  middle  and  won't 
cook  around  the  edges." 

I  recognized  the  mayor.  He  was  a  big  fellow, 
handsome  in  a  heavy  way,  and  "Tommy"  to  every  one 
who  knew  him.  It  seemed  I  was  about  to  see  my  city 
government  at  play. 

Hunter  was  thoroughly  at  home.  He  took  my 
coat  and  his  own  and  hung  them  somewhere  to  dry. 
Then  he  went  into  a  sort  of  pantry  opening  off  the 
kitchen  and  came  out  with  four  bottles  of  beer. 

"We  take  care  of  ourselves  here,"  he  explained,  as 
the  newly  barbered  youth  washed  some  glasses.  "If 
you  want  a  sandwich,  there  is  cooked  ham  in  the  re- 
frigerator and  cheese — if  our  friend  at  the  sink  has 
left  any." 

The  boy  looked  up  from  his  glasses.  "It's  rat 
trap  cheese,  that  stuff,"  he  growled. 

"The  other  ran  out  an  hour  ago  and  didn't  come 
back,"  put  in  the  mayor,  grinning.  "You  can  kill  that 
with  mustard,  if  it's  too  lively." 

"Get  some  cigars,  will  you?"  Hunter  asked  me. 
"They're  on  a  shelf  in  the  pantry.  I  have  my  hands 
full." 

I  went  for  the  cigars,  remembering  to  keep  my  eyes 


98    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

open.  The  pantry  was  a  small  room:  it  contained  an 
ice-box,  stocked  with  drinkables,  ham,  eggs  and  but- 
ter. On  shelves  above  were  cards,  cigars  and  liquors, 
and  there,  too,  I  saw  a  box  with  an  indorsement 
which  showed  the  "honor  system"  of  the  Cat  Club. 

"Sign  checks  and  drop  here,"  it  read,  and  I  thought 
about  the  old  adage  of  honor  among  thieves  and 
politicians. 

When  I  came  out  with  the  cigars  Hunter  was  stand- 
ing with  a  group  of  new  arrivals;  they  included  one 
of  the  city  physicians,  the  director  of  public  charities 
and  a  judge  of  a  local  court.  The  latter,  McFeely, 
a  little,  thin  Irishman,  knew  me  and  accosted  me  at 
once.  The  mayor  was  busy  over  the  range,  and  was 
almost  purple  with  heat  and  unwonted  anxiety. 

When  the  three  new-comers  went  up-stairs,  instead 
of  going  into  the  grill-room,  I  looked  at  Hunter. 

"Is  this  where  the  political  game  is  played  ?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  if  the  political  game  is  poker,"  he  replied,  and 
led  the  way  into  the  room  which  adjoined  the  kitchen. 

No  one  paid  any  attention  to  us.  Bare  tables,  a 
wooden  floor,  and  almost  as  many  cuspidors  as  chairs, 
comprised  the  furniture  of  the  long  room.  In  one 
corner  was  a  battered  upright  piano,  and  there  were 
two  fireplaces  with  old-fashioned  mantels.  Perhaps 
a  dozen  men  were  sitting  around,  talking  loudly, 
with  much  scraping  of  chairs  on  the  bare  floor.  At 
one  table  they  were  throwing  poker  dice,  but  the  rest 
were  drinking  beer  and  talking  in  a  desultory  way. 
At  the  piano  a  man  with  a  red  mustache  was  mimick- 


TOO  LATE  99 


ing  the  sextette  from  Lucia  and  a  roar  of  applause  met 
us  as  we  entered  the  room.  Hunter  led  the  way  to  a 
corner  and  put  down  his  bottles. 

"It's  fairly  quiet  to-night,"  he  said.  "To-morrow's 
the  big  night — Saturday." 

"What  time  do  they  close  up  ?"  I  asked.  In  answer 
Hunter  pointed  to  a  sign  over  the  door.  It  was  a  card, 
neatly  printed,  and  it  said,  "The  White  Cat  never 
sleeps." 

"There  are  only  two  rules  here,"   he  explained. 

"That  is  one,  and  the  other  is,  'If  you  get  too  noisy, 
(and  the  patrol  wagon  comes,  make  the  driver  take 
you  home.' ' 

The  crowd  was  good-humored;  it  paid  little  or  no 
attention  to  us,  and  when  some  one  at  the  piano  be- 
gan to  thump  a  waltz,  Hunter,  under  cover  of  the 
noise,  leaned  over  to  me. 

"We  traced  Fleming  here,  through  your  corner- 
man and  the  cabby,"  he  said  carefully.  "I  haven't 
seen  him,  but  it  is  a  moral  certainty  he  is  skulking  in 
one  of  the  up-stairs  rooms.  His  precious  private  sec- 
retary is  here,  too." 

I  glanced  around  the  room,  but  no  one  was  paying 
any  attention  to  us. 

"I  don't  know  Fleming  by  sight,"  the  detective 
went  on,  "and  the  pictures  we  have  of  him  were  taken 
a  good  while  ago,  when  he  wore  a  mustache.  When 
he  was  in  local  politics,  before  he  went  to  the  legis- 
lature, he  practically  owned  this  place,  paying  for 
.favors  with  membership  tickets.  A  man  could  hide 


100    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

here  for  a  year  safely.     The  police  never  come  here, 
and  a  man's  business  is  his  own." 

"He  is  up-stairs  now?" 

"Yes.  There  are  four  rooms  up  there  for  cards, 
and  a  bath-room.  It's  an  old  dwelling  house.  Would 
Fleming  know  you  ?" 

"No,  but  of  course  Wardrop  would." 

As  if  in  answer  to  my  objection,  Wardrop  appeared 
at  that  moment.  He  ran  down  the  painted  wooden 
stairs  and  hurried  through  the  room  without  looking 
to  right  or  left.  The  piano  kept  on,  and  the  men  at 
the  tables  were  still  engrossed  with  their  glasses  and 
one  another.  Wardrop  was  very  pale ;  he  bolted  into  a 
man  at  the  door,  and  pushed  him  aside  without 
ceremony. 

"You  might  go  up  now,"  Hunter  said,  rising.  "I 
>vill  see  where  the  young  gentleman  is  making  for. 
Just  open  the  door  of  the  different  rooms  up-stairs, 
look  around  for  Fleming,  and  if  any  one  notices  you, 
|ask  if  Al  Hunter  is  there.  That  will  let  you  out." 

He  left  me  then,  and  after  waiting  perhaps  a  minute, 
I  went  up-stairs  alone.  The  second  floor  was  the 
ordinary  upper-story  of  a  small  dwelling  house.  The 
doors  were  closed,  but  loud  talking,  smoke,  and  the 
rattle  of  chips  floated  out  through  open  transoms. 
From  below  the  noise  of  the  piano  came  up  the  stair- 
case, unmelodious  but  rhythmical,  and  from  the  street 
on  which  the  house  faced  an  automobile  was  starting 
its  engine,  with  a  series  of  shotlike  explosions. 

[The  noise  was  confusing,  disconcerting.     I  opened 


TOO  LATE  101 


two  doors,  to  find  only  the  usual  poker  table,  with  the 
winners  sitting  quietly,  their  cards  bunched  in  the 
palms  of  their  hands,  and  the  losers,  growing  more 
voluble  as  the  night  went  on,  buying  chips  recklessly, 
drinking  more  than  they  should.  The  atmosphere 
was  reeking  with  smoke. 

The  third  door  I  opened  was  that  of  a  dingy  bath- 
room, with  a  zinc  tub  and  a  slovenly  wash-stand. 
The  next,  however,  was  different.  The  light  streamed 
out  through  the  transom  as  in  the  other  rooms,  but 
there  was  no  noise  from  within.  With  my  hand  on, 
the  door,  I  hesitated — then,  with  Hunter's  injunction 
ringing  in  my  ears,  I  opened  it  and  looked  in. 

A  breath  of  cool  night  air  from  an  open  window 
met  me.  There  was  no  noise,  no  smoke,  no  sour 
odor  of  stale  beer.  A  table  had  been  drawn  to  the 
center  of  the  small  room,  and  was  littered  with  papers, 
pen  and  ink.  At  one  corner  was  a  tray,  containing  the 
remnants  of  a  meal;  a  pillow  and  a  pair  of  blankets 
on  a  couch  at  one  side  showed  the  room  had  been 
serving  as  a  bedchamber. 

But  none  of  these  things  caught  my  eye  at  first. 
At  the  table,  leaning  forward,  his  head  on  his  arms, 
was  a  man.  I  coughed,  and  receiving  no  answer, 
stepped  into  the  room. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  said,  "but  I  am  looking 
for—" 

Then  the  truth  burst  on  me,  overwhelmed  me.  A 
thin  stream  was  spreading  over  the  papers  on  the 
table,  moving  slowly,  sluggishly,  as  is  the  way  with 


102     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

blood  when  the  heart  pump  is  stopped.  I  hurried 
over  and  raised  the  heavy,  wobbling,  gray  head.  It 
was  Allan  Fleming  and  he  had  been  shot  through  the 
forehead. 


CHAPTER  IX 

ONLY   ONE   EYE    CLOSED 

MY  FIRST  impulse  was  to  rouse  the  house;  my 
second,  to  wait  for  Hunter.  To  turn  loose 
that  mob  of  half-drunken  men  in  such  a  place  seemed 
profanation.  There  was  nothing  of  the  majesty  or 
panoply  of  death  here,  but  the  very  sordidness  of  the 
surroundings  made  me  resolve  to  guard  the  new  dig- 
nity of  that  figure.  I  was  shocked,  of  course;  it 
would  be  absurd  to  say  that  I  was  emotionally  un- 
strung. On  the  contrary,  I  was  conscious  of  a  dis- 
tinct feeling  of  disappointment.  Fleming  had  been 
our  key  to  the  Bellwood  affair,  and  he  had  put  him- 
self beyond  helping  to  solve  any  mystery.  I  locked 
the  door  and  stood  wondering  what  to  do  next.  I 
should  have  called  a  doctor,  no  doubt,  but  I  had  seen 
enough  of  death  to  know  that  the  man  was  beyond 
aid  of  any  kind. 

It  was  not  until  I  had  bolted  the  door  that  I  dis- 
covered the  absence  of  any  weapon.  Everything 
that  had  gone  before  had  pointed  to  a  position  so 
untenable  that  suicide  seemed  its  natural  and  inevit- 
able result.  With  the  discovery  that  there  was  no 
revolver  on  the  table  or  floor,  the  thing  was  more 

103 


104    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

ominous.  I  decided  at  once  to  call  the  young  city 
physician  in  the  room  across  the  hall,  and  with  some- 
thing approximating  panic,  I  threw  open  the  door 
— to  face  Harry  Wardrop,  and  behind  him,  Hunter. 

I  do  not  remember  that  any  one  spoke.  Hunter 
jumped  past  me  into  the  room  and  took  in  in  a 
single  glance  what  I  had  labored  to  acquire  in  three 
minutes.  As  Wardrop  came  in,  Hunter  locked  the 
door  behind  him,  and  we  three  stood  staring  at  the 
prostrate  figure  over  the  table. 

I  watched  Wardrop:  I  have  never  seen  so  sud- 
denly abject  a  picture.  He  dropped  into  a  chair, 
and  feeling  for  his  handkerchief,  wiped  his  shaking 
lips;  every  particle  of  color  left  his  face,  and  he  was 
limp,  unnerved. 

"Did  you  hear  the  shot?"  Hunter  asked  me.  "It 
has  been  a  matter  of  minutes  since  it  happened." 

"I  don't  know,"  I  said,  bewildered.  "I  heard  a 
lot  of  explosions,  but  I  thought  it  was  an  automo- 
bile, out  in  the  street." 

Hunter  was  listening  while  he  examined  the 
room,  peering  under  the  table,  lifting  the  blankets 
that  had  trailed  off  the  couch  on  to  the  floor.  Some 
one  outside  tried  the  door-knob,  and  finding  the  door 
locked,  shook  it  slightly. 

"Fleming!"  he  called  under  his  breath.  "Flem- 
ing!" 

We  were  silent,  in  response  to  a  signal  from  Hun- 
ter,  and  the   step  retreated  heavily   down   the   hall, 
detective  spread  the  blankets  decently  over  the 


ONLY  ONE  EYE  CLOSED        105 

couch,  and  the  three  of  us  moved  the  body  there. 
^Wardrop  was  almost  collapsing. 

"Now,"  Hunter  said  quietly,  "before  I  call  in  Doc- 
tor Gray  from  the  room  across,  what  do  you  know 
about  this  thing,  Mr.  Wardrop?" 

Wardrop  looked  dazed. 

"He  was  in  a  bad  way  when  I  left  this  morning," 
he  said  huskily.  "There  isn't  much  use  now  trying 
to  hide  anything;  God  knows  I've  done  all  I  could. 
But  he  has  been  using  cocaine  for  years,  and  to-day 
he  ran  out  of  the  stuff.  When  I  got  here,  about  half 
an  hour  ago,  he  was  on  the  verge  of  killing  himself.  I 
got  the  revolver  from  him — he  was  like  a  crazy  man, 
and  as  soon  as  I  dared  to  leave  him,  I  went  out  to  try 
and  find  a  doctor — " 

"To  get  some  cocaine?" 

"Yes." 

"Not — because  he  was  already  wounded,  and  you 
Iwere  afraid  it  was  fatal?" 

Wardrop  shuddered;  then  he  pulled  himself  to- 
gether, and  his  tone  was  more  natural. 
„  "What's  the  use  of  lying  about  it?"  he  said  wearily. 
"You  won't  believe  me  if  I  tell  the  truth,  either,  but — 
he  was  dead  when  I  got  here.  I  heard  something  like 
the  bang  of  a  door  as  I  went  up-stairs,  but  the  noise 
was  terrific  down  below,  and  I  couldn't  tell.  When  I 
went  in,  he  was  just  dropping  forward,  and — "  he 
hesitated. 

"The  revolver?"  Hunter  queried,  lynx-eyed. 

"Was  in  his  hand.     He  was  dead  then." 


106    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

"Where  is  the  revolver?" 

"I  will  turn  it  over  to  the  coroner." 

"You  will  give  it  to  me,"  Hunter  replied  sharply. 
And  after  a.  little  fumbling,  Wardrop  produced  it 
from  his  hip  pocket.  It  was  an  ordinary  thirty-eight. 
The  detective  opened  it  and  glanced  at  it.  Two 
chambers  were  empty. 

"And  you  waited — say  ten  minutes,  before  you  called 
for  help,  and  even  then  you  went  outside  hunting  a 
doctor !  What  were  you  doing  in  those  ten  minutes  ?" 

Wardrop  shut  his  lips  and  refused  to  reply. 

"If  Mr.  Fleming  shot  himself,"  the  detective  pur- 
sued relentlessly,  "there  would  be  powder  marks 
around  the  wound.  Then,  too,  he  was  in  the  act  of 
writing  a  letter.  It  was  a  strange  impulse,  this — 
you  see,  he  had  only  written  a  dozen  words." 

I  glanced  at  the  paper  on  the  table.  The  letter  had 
no  superscription ;  it  began  abruptly : 

"I  shall  have  to  leave  here.  The  numbers  have  fol- 
lowed me.  To-night — " 

That  was  all. 

"This  is  not  suicide,"  Hunter  said  gravely.  "It  is 
murder,  and  I  warn  you,  Mr.  Wardrop,  to  be  careful 
what  you  say.  Will  you  ask  Doctor  Gray  to  come  in, 
Mr.  Knox?" 

I  went  across  the  hall  to  the  room  where  the  noise 
was  loudest.  Fortunately,  Doctor  Gray  was  out  of 
the  game.  He  was  opening  a  can  of  caviare  at  a 


ONLY  ONE  EYE  CLOSED        107 

table  in  the  corner  and  came  out  in  response  to  a  ges- 
ture. He  did  not  ask  any  questions,  and  I  let  him 
go  into  the  death  chamber  unprepared.  The  presence 
of  death  apparently  had  no  effect  on  him,  but  the 
identity  of  the  dead  man  almost  stupefied  him. 

"Fleming!"  he  said,  awed,  as  he  looked  down  at 
the  body.  "Fleming,  by  all  that's  sacred!  And  a 
suicide !" 

Hunter  watched  him  grimly. 

"How  long  has  he  been  dead?"  he  asked. 

The  doctor  glanced  at  the  bullet  wound  in  the  fore- 
head, and  from  there  significantly  to  the  group  around 
the  couch. 

"Not  an  hour — probably  less  than  half,"  he  said. 

"It's  strange  we  heard  nothing,  across  the  hall  there." 

Hunter  took  a  clean  folded  handkerchief  from  his 
pocket  and  opening  it  laid  it  gently  over  the  dead  face. 
I  think  it  was  a  relief  to  all  of  us.  The  doctor  got 
up  from  his  kneeling  posture  beside  the  couch,  and 
looked  at  Hunter  inquiringly. 

"What  about  getting  him  away  from  here?"  he 
(said.  "There  is  sure  to  be  a  lot  of  noise  about  it, 
and — you  remember  what  happened  when  Butler 
killed  himself  here." 

"He  was  reported  as  being  found  dead  in  the  lum- 
ber yard,"  Hunter  said  dryly.  "Well,  Doctor,  this 
body  stays  where  it  is,  and  I  don't  give  a  whoop  if 
the  whole  city  government  wants  it  moved.  It 
won't  be.  This  is  murder,  not  suicide." 

The  doctor's  expression  was  curious. 


108    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

"Murder!"  he  repeated.     "Why— who— " 

But  Hunter  had  many  things  to  attend  to;  he 
Broke  in  ruthlessly  on  the  doctor's  amazement. 

"See  if  you  can  get  the  house  empty,  Doctor;  just 
tell  them  he  is  dead — the  story  will  get  out  soon 
enough." 

As  the  doctor  left  the  room  Hunter  went  to  the 
open  window,  through  which  a  fresh  burst  of  rain 
was  coming,  and  closed  it.  The  window  gave  me 
an  idea,  and  I  went  over  and  tried  to  see  through  the 
streaming  pane.  There  was  no  shed  or  low  building 
outside,  but  not  five  yards  away  the  warehouse  showed 
its  ugly  walls  and  broken  windows. 

"Look  here,  Hunter,"  I  said,  "why  could  he  not 
have  been  shot  from  the  warehouse?" 

"He  could  have  been — but  he  wasn't,"  Hunter  af- 
firmed, glancing  at  Wardrop's  drooping  figure. 
"Mr.  Wardrop,  I  am  going  to  send  for  the  coroner, 
and  then  I  shall  ask  you  to  go  with  me  to  the  office 
and  tell  the  chief  what  you  know  about  this.  Knox, 
will  you  telephone  to  the  coroner?" 

In  an  incredibly  short  time  the  club-house  was 
emptied,  and  before  midnight  the  coroner  himself 
arrived  and  went  up  to  the  room.  As  for  me,  I  had 
breakfasted,  lunched  and  dined  on  horrors,  and  I 
sat  in  the  deserted  room  down-stairs  and  tried  to 
think  how  I  was  to  take  the  news  to  Margery. 

At  twelve-thirty  Wardrop,  Hunter  and  the  cor- 
oner came  down-stairs,  leaving  a  detective  in  charge 


ONLY  ONE  EYE  CLOSED        109 

of  the  body  until  morning,  when  it  could  be  taken 
home.  The  coroner  had  a  cab  waiting,  and  he  took 
us  at  once  to  Hunter's  chief.  He  had  not  gone  to 
bed,  and  we  filed  into  his  library  sepulchrally. 

Wardrop  told  his  story,  but  it  was  hardly  con- 
vincing. The  chief,  a  large  man  who  said  very  little, 
and  leaned  back  with  his  eyes  partly  shut,  listened 
in  silence,  only  occasionally  asking  a  question.  The 
coroner,  who  was  yawning  steadily,  left  in  the  mid- 
dle of  Wardrop's  story,  as  if  in  his  mind,  at  least, 
the  guilty  man  was  as  good  as  hanged. 

"I  am — I  was — Mr.  Allan  Fleming's  private  sec- 
retary," Wardrop  began.  "I  secured  the  position 
through  a  relationship  on  his  wife's  side.  I  have  held 
the  position  for  three  years.  Before  that  I  read  law. 
For  some  time  I  have  known  that  Mr.  Fleming  used 
a  drug  of  some  kind.  Until  a  week  ago  I  did  not  know 
what  it  was.  On  the  ninth  of  May,  Mr.  Fleming  sent 
for  me.  I  was  in  Plattsburg  at  the  time,  and  he  was 
at  home.  He  was  in  a  terrible  condition — not  sleep- 
ing at  all,  and  he  said  he  was  being  followed  by  some 
person  who  meant  to  kill  him.  Finally  he  asked  me 
to  get  him  some  cocaine,  and  when  he  had  taken  it  he 
was  more  like  himself.  I  thought  the  pursuit  was 
only  in  his  own  head.  He  had  a  man  named  Carter 
on  guard  in  his  house,  and  acting  as  butler. 

"There  was  trouble  of  some  sort  in  the  organiza- 
tion ;  I  do  not  know  just  what.  Mr.  Schwartz  came 
here  to  meet  Mr.  Fleming,  and  it  seemed  there  was 


.110    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

money  needed.  Mr.  Fleming  had  to  have  it  at  once. 
[He  gave  me  some  securities  to  take  to  Plattsburg  and 
turn  into  money.  I  went  on  the  tenth — " 

"Was  that  the  day  Mr.  Fleming  disappeared?"  the 
chief  interrupted. 

"Yes.  He  went  to  the  White  Cat,  and  stayed  there. 
No  one  but  the  caretaker  and  one  other  man  knew 
he  was  there.  On  the  night  of  the  twenty-first,  I 
came  back,  having  turned  my  securities  into  money. 
I  carried  it  in  a  package  in  a  small  Russia  leather  bag 
that  never  left  my  hand  for  a  moment.  Mr.  Knox 
here  suggested  that  I  had  put  it  down,  and  it  had  been 
exchanged  for  one  just  like  it,  but  I  did  not  let  it  out 
of  my  hand  on  that  journey  until  I  put  it  down  on  the 
porch  at  the  Bellwood  house,  while  I  tried  to  get  in.  I 
live  at  Bellwood,  with  the  Misses  Maitland,  sisters  of 
Mr.  Fleming's  deceased  wife.  I  don't  pretend  to  know 
how  it  happened,  but  while  I  was  trying  to  get  into 
the  house  it  was  rifled.  Mr.  Knox  will  bear  me  out  in 
that.  I  found  my  grip  empty." 

I  affirmed  it  in  a  word.  The  chief  was  growing  in- 
terested. 

"What  was  in  the  bag?"  he  asked. 

Wardrop  tried  to  remember. 

"A  pair  of  pajamas,"  he  said,  "two  military  brushes 
and  a  clothes-brush,  two  or  three  soft-bosomed  shirts, 
perhaps  a  half-dozen  collars,  and  a  suit  of  underwear." 

"And  all  this  was  taken,  as  well  as  the  money?" 

"The  bag  was  left  empty,  except  for  my  railroad 
schedule." 


;  ONLY  ONE  EYE  CLOSED        111 

I  The  chief  and  Hunter  exchanged  significant  glances. 
:  Then— 

"Go  on,  if  you  please,"  the  detective  said  cheerfully* 

I  think  Wardrop  realized  the  absurdity  of  trying  to 
make  any  one  believe  that  part  of  the  story.  He  shut 
his  lips  and  threw  up  his  head  as  if  he  intended  to 
say  nothing  further. 

"Go  on,"  I  urged.  If  he  could  clear  himself  he 
must.  I  could  not  go  back  to  Margery  Fleming  and 
tell  her  that  her  father  had  been  murdered  and  her 
lover  was  accused  of  the  crime. 

"The  bag  was  empty,"  he  repeated.  "I  had  not  been 
.  five  minutes  trying  to  open  the  shutters,  and  yet  the 
bag  had  been  rifled.  Mr.  Knox  here  found  it  among 
the  flowers  below  the  veranda,  empty." 

The  chief  eyed  me  with  awakened  interest. 

"You  also  live  at  Bellwood,  Mr.  Knox?" 

"No,  I  am  attorney  to  Miss  Letitia  Maitland,  and 
was  there  one  night  as  her  guest.  I  found  the  bag  as 
Mr.  Wardrop  described,  empty." 

The  chief  turne'd  back  to  Wardrop. 

"How  much  money  was  there  in  it  when  you — left 
it?" 

"A  hundred  thousand  dollars.  I  was  afraid  to  tell 
Mr.  Fleming,  but  I  had  to  do  it.  We  had  a  stormy 
scene,  this  morning.  I  think  he  thought  the  natural 
thing — that  I  had  taken  it." 

"He  struck  you,  I  believe,  and  knocked  you  down?" 
asked  Hunter  smoothly. 

Wardrop  flushed. 


"He  was  not  himself;  and,  well,  it  meant  a  great 
deal  to  him.  And  he  was  out  of  cocaine;  I  left  him 
raging,  and  when  I  went  home  I  learned  that  Miss 
Jane  Maitland  had  disappeared,  been  abducted,  at  the 
time  my  satchel  had  been  empted!  It's  no  wonder 
I  question  my  sanity." 

"And  then — to-night?"  the  chief  persisted. 

"To-night,  I  felt  that  some  one  would  have  to  look 
iafter  Mr.  Fleming;  I  was  afraid  he  would  kill  himself. 
It  was  a  bad  time  to  leave  while  Miss  Jane  was  missing. 
But — when  I  got  to  the  White  Cat  I  found  him  dead. 
He  was  sitting  with  his.  back  to  the  door,  and  his  head 
on  the  table." 

"Was  the  revolver  in  his  hand?" 

"Yes." 

"You  are  sure?"  from  Hunter.  "Isn't  it  a  fact,  Mr. 
Wardrop,  tha,t  you  took  Mr.  Fleming's  revolver  from 
him  this  morning  when  he  threatened  you  with  it?" 

Wardrop's  face  twitched  nervously. 

"You  have  been  misinformed,"  he  replied,  but  no  one 
was  impressed  by  his  tone.  It  was  wavering,  uncer- 
tain. From  Hunter's  face  I  judged  it  had  been  a  ran- 
dom shot,  and  had  landed  unexpectedly  well. 

"How  many  people  knew  that  Mr.  Fleming  had 
been  hiding  at  the  White  Cat  ?"  from  the  chief. 

"Very  few — besides  myself,  only  a  man  who  looks 
after  the  club-house  in  the  mornings,  and  Clarkson, 
the  cashier  of  the  Borough  Bank,  who  met  him  there 
once  by  appointment." 

The  chief  made  no  comment. 


ONLY  ONE  EYE  CLOSED        113 

"Now,  Mr.  Knox,  what  about  you?" 

"I  opened  the  door  into  Mr.  Fleming's  room,  per- 
haps a  couple  of  minutes  after  Mr.  Wardrop  went  out," 
I  said.  "He  was  dead  then,  leaning  on  his  outspread 
arms  over  the  table ;  he  had  been  shot  in  the  forehead." 

"You  heard  no  shot  while  you  were  in  the  hall?" 

"There  was  considerable  noise ;  I  heard  two  or  three 
sharp  reports  like  the  explosions  of  an  automobile 
engine." 

"Did  they  seem  close  at  hand?" 

"Not  particularly;  I  thought,  if  I  thought  at  all, 
that  they  were  on  the  street." 

"You  are  right  about  the  automobile,"  Hunter  said 
dryly.  "The  mayor  sent  his  car  away  as  I  left  to 
follow  Mr.  Wardrop.  The  sounds  you  heard  were  not 
shots." 

"It  is  a  strange  thing,"  the  chief  reflected,  "that  a 
revolver  could  be  fired  in  the  upper  room  of  an  ordinary 
dwelling  house,  while  that  house  was  filled  with  people 
— and  nobody  hear  it.  Were  there  any  powder  marks 
on  the  body?" 

"None,"  Hunter  said. 

The  chief  got  up  stiffly. 

"Thank  you  very  much,  gentlemen,"  he  spoke  quietly. 
"I  think  that  is  all.  Hunter,  I  would  like  to  see  you 
for  a  few  minutes." 

I  think  Wardrop  was  dazed  at  finding  himself  free ; 
he  had  expected  nothing  less  than  an  immediate  charge 
of  murder.  As  we  walked  to  the  corner  for  a  car  or 
cab,  whichever  materialized  first,  he  looked  back. 


114    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

"I  thought  so,"  he  said  bitterly.  A  man  was  loiter- 
ing after  us  along  the  street  The  police  were  not 
asleep,  they  had  only  closed  one  eye. 

The  last  train  had  gone.  We  took  a  night  electric 
car  to-  Wynton,  and  walked  the  three  miles  to  Bell- 
wood.  Neither  of  us  was  talkative,  and  I  imagine  we 
were  both  thinking  of  Margery,  and  the  news  she 
would  have  to  hear. 

It  had  been  raining,  and  the  roads  were  vile.  Once 
Wardrop  turned  around  to  where  we  could  hear  the 
detectiv^  splashing  along,  well  behind. 

"I  hope  he's  enjoying  it,"  he  said.  "I  brought  you 
by  this  road,  so  he'd  have  to  wade  in  mud  up  to  his 
neck." 

"The  devil  you  did !"  I  exclaimed.  "I'll  have  to  be 
scraped  with  a  knife  before  I  can  get  my  clothes  off." 

We  both  felt  better  for  the  laugh;  it  was  a  sort  of 
nervous  reaction.  The  detective  was  well  behind,  but 
after  a  while  Wardrop  stood  still,  while  I  plowed 
along.  They  came  up  together  presently,  and  the  three 
of  us  trudged  on,  talking  of  immaterial  things. 

At  the  door  Wardrop  turned  to  the  detective  with 
a  faint  smile.  "It's  raining  again,"  he  said,  "you'd 
better  come  in.  You  needn't  worry  about  me;  I'm 
not  going  to  run  away,  and  there's  a  couch  in  the  li- 
brary." 

The  detective  grinned,  and  in  the  light  from  the  hall 
I  recognized  the  man  I  had  followed  to  the  police  sta- 
tion two  nights  before. 

"I  guess  I  will,"  he  said,  looking  apologetically  at 


ONLY  ONE  EYE  CLOSED        115 

his  muddy  clothes.     "This  thing  is  only  a  matter  of 
form,  anyhow." 

But  he  didn't  lie  down  on  the  couch.  He  took  a 
chair  in  the  hall  near  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and  we 
left  him  there,  with  the  evening  paper  and  a  lamp.  It 
was  a  queer  situation,  to  say  the  least 


CHAPTER  X 

BREAKING  THE   NEWS 

"TT  7ARDROP  looked  so  wretched  that  I  asked  him 
*  *     into  my  room,  and  mixed  him  some  whiskey 
and  water.     When  I  had  given  him  a  cigar  he  be- 
gan to  look  a  little  less  hopeless. 

"You've  been  a  darned  sight  better  to  me  than  I 
would  have  been  to  you,  under  the  circumstances,"  he 
said  gratefully. 

"I  thought  we  would  better  arrange  about  Miss 
Margery  before  we  try  to  settle  down,"  I  replied. 
"What  she  has  gone  through  in  the  last  twenty-four 
hours  is  nothing  to  what  is  coming  to-morrow.  Will 
you  tell  her  about  her  father?" 

He  took  a  turn  about  the  room. 
'I  "I  believe  it  would  come  better  from  you,"  he  said 
f /rally.  "I  am  in  the  peculiar  position  of  having  been 
suspected  by  her  father  of  robbing  him,  by  you  of 
carrying  away  her  aunt,  and  now  by  the  police  and 
everybody  else  of  murdering  her  father." 

"I  do  not  suspect  you  of  anything,"  I  justified  my- 
self. "I  don't  think  you  are  entirely  open,  that  is 
all,  Wardrop.  I  think  you  are  damaging  yourself 
to  shield  some  one  else." 

116 


BREAKING  THE  NEWS          117 

His  expressive  face  was  on  its  guard  in  a  mo- 
ment. He  ceased  his  restless  pacing,  pausing  impres- 
sively before  me. 

"I  give  you  my  word  as  a  gentleman — I  do  not 
know  who  killed  Mr.  Fleming,  and  that  when  I  first 
saw  him  dead,  my  only  thought  was  that  he  had 
killed  himself.  He  had  threatened  to,  that  day. 
Why,  if  you  think  I  killed  him,  you  would  have  to 
think  I  robbed  him,  too,  in  order  to  find  a  mo- 
tive." 

I  did  not  tell  him  that  that  was  precisely  what  Hun- 
ter did  think.  I  evaded  the  issue. 

"Mr.  Wardrop,  did  you  ever  hear  of  the  figures 
eleven  twenty-two?"  I  inquired. 

"Eleven  twenty-two?"  he  repeated.  "No,  never  in 
any  unusual  connection." 

"You  never  heard  Mr.  Fleming  use  them?"  I  per- 
sisted. 

He  looked  puzzled. 

"Probably,"  he  said.  "In  the  very  nature  of  Mr. 
Fleming's  position,  we  used  figures  all  the  time. 
Eleven  twenty-two.  That's  the  time  the  theater  train 
leaves  the  city  for  Bellwood.  Not  what  you  want, 
eh?" 

"Not  quite,"  I  answered  non-committally  and  be- 
gan to  wind  my  watch.  He  took  the  hint  and  pre- 
pared to  leave. 

"I'll  not  keep  you  up  any  longer,"  he  said,  picking 
up  his  raincoat.  He  opened  the  door  and  stared  rue- 
fully down  at  the  detective  in  the  hall  below.  "The 


118    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

old  place  is  queer  without  Miss  Jane,"  he  said  irrel- 
evantly. "Well,  good  night,  and  thanks." 

He  went  heavily  along  the  hall  and  I  closed  my 
door.  I  heard  him  pass  Margery's  room  and  then 
go  back  and  rap  lightly.  She  was  evidently  awake. 

"It's  Harry,"  he  called.  "I  thought  you  wouldn't 
worry  if  you  knew  I  was  in  the  house  to-night." 

She  asked  him  something,  for — 

"Yes,  he  is  here,"  he  said.  He  stood  there  for  a 
moment,  hesitating  over  something,  but  whatever  it 
was,  he  decided  against  it. 

"Good  night,  dear,"  he  said  gently  and  went  away. 

The  little  familiarity  made  me  wince.  Every  un- 
attached man  has  the  same  pang  now  and  then.  I 
have  it  sometimes  when  Edith  sits  on  the  arm  of 
Fred's  chair,  or  one  of  the  youngsters  leaves  me  to 
run  to  "daddy."  And  one  of  the  sanest  men  I  ever 
tnet  went  to  his  office  and  proposed  to  his  steno- 
grapher in  sheer  craving  for  domesticity,  after  watch- 
ing the  wife  of  one  of  his  friends  run  her  hand  over 
her  husband's  chin  and  give  him  a  reproving  slap 
for  not  having  shaved ! 

I  pulled  myself  up  sharply  and  after  taking  off 
my  dripping  coat,  I  went  to  the  window  and  looked 
out  into  the  May  night.  It  seemed  incredible  that 
almost  the  same  hour  the  previous  night  little  Miss 
Jane  had  disappeared,  had  been  taken  bodily  away 
through  the  peace  of  the  warm  spring  darkness,  and 
that  I,  as  wide-awake  as  I  was  at  that  moment,  acute 


BREAKING  THE  NEWS          119 

enough  of  hearing  to  detect  Wardrop's  careful  steps 
on  the  gravel  walk  below,  had  heard  no  struggle, 
had  permitted  this  thing  to  happen  without  raising 
a  finger  in  the  old  lady's  defense.  And  she  was 
gone  as  completely  as  if  she  had  stepped  over  some 
psychic  barrier  into  the  fourth  dimension! 

I  found  myself  avoiding  the  more  recent  occur- 
rence at  the  White  Cat.  I  was  still  too  close  to  it 
to  have  gained  any  perspective.  On  that  subject  I 
was  able  to  think  clearly  of  only  one  thing:  that  I 
would  have  to  tell  Margery  in  the  morning,  and  that 
I  would  have  given  anything  I  possessed  for  a  little 
of  Edith's  diplomacy  with  which  to  break  the  bad 
news.  It  was  Edith  who  broke  the  news  to  me  that 
the  moths  had  got  into  my  evening  clothes  while  I 
was  hunting  in  the  Rockies,  by  telling  me  that  my  dress- 
coat  made  me  look  narrow  across  the  shoulders  and 
persuading  me  to  buy  a  new  one  and  give  the  old  one 
to  Fred.  Then  she  broke  the  news  of  the  moths  to 
Fred! 

I  was  ready  for  bed  when  Wardrop  came  back  and 
rapped  at  my  door.  He  was  still  dressed,  and  he  had 
the  leather  bag  in  his  hand. 

"Look  here,"  he  said  excitedly,  when  I  had  closed  the 
door,  "this  is  not  my  bag  at  all.  Fool  that  I  was.  I 
never  examined  it  carefully." 

He  held  it  out  to  me,  and  I  carried  it  to  the  light. 
It  was  an  ordinary  eighteen-inch  Russia  leather  trav- 
eling-bag, tan  in  color,  and  with  gold-plated  mount- 


120    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

ings.  It  was  empty,  save  for  the  railroad  schedule  that 
still  rested  in  one  side  pocket.  Wardrop  pointed  to 
the  empty  pocket  on  the  other  side. 

"In  my  bag,"  he  explained  rapidly,  "my  name  was 
ymtten  inside  that  pocket,  in  ink.  I  did  it  myself — 
my  name  and  address." 

I  looked  inside  the  pockets  on  both  sides:  nothing 
had  been  written  in. 

"Don't  you  see?"  he  asked  excitedly.  "Whoever 
stole  my  bag  had  this  one  to  substitute  for  it.  If  we 
can  succeed  in  tracing  the  bag  here  to  the  shop  it  came 
from,  and  from  there  to  the  purchaser,  we  have  the 
thief." 

"There's  no  maker's  name  in  it,"  I  said,  after  a 
casual  examination.  Wardrop's  face  fell,  and  he  took 
the  bag  from  me  despondently. 

"No  matter  which  way  I  turn,"  he  said,  "I  run  into 
a  blind  alley.  If  I  were  worth  a  damn,  I  suppose  I 
could  find  a  way  out.  But  I'm  not.  Well,  I'll  let 
you  sleep  this  time." 

At  the  door,  however,  he  turned  around  and  put 
the  bag  on  the  floor,  just  inside. 

"If  you  don't  mind,  I'll  leave  it  here,"  he  said. 
"They'll  be  searching  my  room,  I  suppose,  and  I'd 
like  to  have  the  bag  for  future  reference." 

He  went  for  good  that  time,  and  I  put  out  the 
light.  As  an  afterthought  I  opened  my  door  perhaps 
six  inches,  and  secured  it  with  one  of  the  pink  conch- 
shells  which  flanked  either  end  of  the  stone  hearth. 


BREAKING  THE  NEWS          121 

I  had  failed  the  night  before :  I  meant  to  be  on  hand 
that  night. 

I  went  to  sleep  immediately,  I  believe.  I  have  no 
idea  how  much  later  it  was  that  I  roused.  I  wakened 
suddenly  and  sat  up  in  bed.  There  had  been  a  crash  of 
some  kind,  for  the  shock  was  still  vibrating  along 
my  nerves.  Dawn  was  close;  the  window  showed 
gray  against  the  darkness  inside,  and  I  could  make 
out  dimly  the  larger  objects  in  the  room.  I  listened 
intently,  but  the  house  seemed  quiet.  Still  I  was  nol 
satisfied.  I  got  up  and,  lighting  the  candle,  got  into 
my  raincoat  in  lieu  of  a  dressing-gown,  and  pre- 
pared to  investigate. 

With  the  fatality  that  seemed  to  pursue  my  feet  in 
that  house,  with  my  first  step  I  trod  squarely  on  top 
of  the  conch-shell,  and  I  fell  back  on  to  the  edge  of 
the  bed  swearing  softly  and  holding  the  injured  mem- 
ber. Only  when  the  pain  began  to  subside  did  I  real- 
ize that  I  had  left  the  shell  on  the  door-sill,  and  that 
it  had  moved  at  least  eight  feet  while  I  slept! 

When  I  could  walk  I  put  it  on  the  mantel,  its  mate 
from  the  other  end  of  the  hearth  beside  it.  Then 
I  took  my  candle  and  went  out  into  the  hall.  My 
door,  which  I  had  left  open,  I  found  closed:  nothing 
else  was  disturbed.  The  leather  bag  sat  just  inside, 
as  Wardrop  had  left  it.  Through  Miss  Maitland's 
transom  were  coming  certain  strangled  and  irregular 
sounds,  now  falsetto,  now  deep  bass,  that  showed 
that  worthy  lady  to  be  asleep.  A  glance  down  the 


122     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

staircase   revealed  Davidson,   stretching  in   his  chair 
and   looking  up  at  me. 

"I'm  frozen,"  he  called  up  cautiously.  "Throw 
me  down  a  blanket  or  two,  will  you?" 

I  got  a  couple  of  blankets  from  my  bed  and  took 
them  down.  He  was  examining  his  chair  ruefully. 

"There  isn't  any  grip  to  this  horsehair  stuff,"  he 
complained.  "Every  time  I  doze  off  I  dream  I'm 
coasting  down  the  old  hill  back  on  the  farm,  and 
when  I  wake  up  I'm  sitting  on  the  floor,  with  the  end 
of  my  back  bone  bent  like  a  hook." 

He  wrapped  himself  in  the  blankets  and  sat  down 
again,  taking  the  precaution  this  time  to  put  his  legs 
on  another  chair  and  thus  anchpr  himself.  Then  he 
produced  a  couple  of  apples  and  a  penknife  and  pro- 
ceeded to  pare  and  offer  me  one. 

"Found  'em  in  the  pantry,"  he  said,  biting  into  one. 
"I  belong  to  the  apple  society.  Eat  one  apple  every 
day  and  keep  healthy!"  He  stopped  and  stared  in- 
tently at  the  apple.  "I  reckon  I  got  a  worm  that 
time,"  he  said,  with  less  ardor. 

"I'll  get  something  to  wash  him  down,"  I  offered, 
rising,  but  he  waved  me  back  to  my  stair. 

"Not  on  your  life,"  he  said  with  dignity.  "Let 
him  walk.  How  are  things  going  up-stairs?" 

"You  didn't  happen  to  be  up  there  a  little  while  ago, 
did  you?"  I  questioned  in  turn. 

"No.  I've  been  kept  busy  trying  to  sit  tight  where 
I  am.  Why?" 

"Some  one  came  into  my  room  and  wakened  me," 


BREAKING  THE  NEWS          123 

I  explained.  "I  heard  a  racket  and  when  I  got  up  I 
found  a  shell  that  I  had  put  on  the  door-sill  to  keep 
the  door  open,  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  I  stepped 
on  it." 

He  examined  a  piece  of  apple  before  putting  it  in 
his  mouth.  Then  he  turned  a  pair  of  shrewd  eyes 
on  me. 

"That's  funny,"  he  said.  "Anything  in  the  room 
disturbed?" 

"Nothing." 

"Where's  the  shell  now?" 

"On  the  mantel.     I  didn't  want  to  step  on  it  again." 

He  thought  for  a  minute,  but  his  next  remark  was 
wholly  facetious. 

"No.  I  guess  you  won't  step  on  it  up  there.  Like 
the  old  woman :  she  says,  'Motorman,  if  I  put  my 
foot  on  the  rail  will  I  be  electrocuted?'  And  he  says, 
'No,  madam,  not  unless  you  put  your  other  foot  on 
the  trolley  wire.' ' 

I  got  up  impatiently.  There  was  no  humor  in  the 
situation  that  night  for  me. 

"Some  one  had  been  in  the  room,"  I  reiterated. 
"The  door  was  closed,  although  I  had  left  it  open." 

He  finished  his  apple  and  proceeded  with  great 
gravity  to  drop  the  parings  down  the  immaculate  reg- 
ister in  the  floor  beside  his  chair.  Then — 

"I've  only  got  one  business  here,  Mr.  Knox,"  he 
said  in  an  undertone,  "and  you  know  what  that  is. 
But  if  it  will  relieve  your  mind  of  the  thought  that 
there  was  anything  supernatural  about  your  visitor, 


124     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

I'll  tell  you  that  it  was  Mr.  Wardrop,  and  that  to  the 
best  of  my  belief  he  was  in  your  room,  not  once,  but 
twice,  in  the  last  hour  and  a  half.  As  far  as  that 
shell  goes,  it  was  I  that  kicked  it,  having  gone  up 
without  my  shoes." 

I  stared  at  him  blankly. 

"What  could  he  have  wanted?"  I  exclaimed.  But 
with  his  revelation,  Davidson's  interest  ceased;  he 
drew  the  blanket  up  around  his  shoulders  and  shiv- 
ered. 

"Search  me,"  he  said  and  yawned. 

I  went  back  to  bed,  but  not  to  sleep.  I  deliber- 
ately left  the  door  wide  open,  but  no  intrusion  oc- 
curred. Once  I  got  up  and  glanced  down  the  stairs. 
For  all  his  apparent  drowsiness,  Davidson  heard  my 
cautious  movements,  and  saluted  me  in  a  husky  whis- 
per. 

"Have  you  got  any  quinine?"  he  said.  "I'm  sneez- 
ing my  head  off." 

But  I  had  none.  I  gave  him  a  box  of  cigarettes, 
and  after  partially  dressing,  I  threw  myself  across 
the  bed  to  wait  for  daylight.  I  was  roused  by  the 
sun  beating  on  my  face,  to  hear  Miss  Letitia's  tones 
from  her  room  across. 

"Nonsense,"  she  was  saying  querulously.  "Don't 
you  suppose  I  can  smell?  Do  you  think  because  I'm 
a  little  hard  of  hearing  that  I've  lost  my  other  senses^ 
Somebody's  been  smoking." 

"It's  me,"  Heppie  shouted.     "I—" 

"You?"    Miss    Letitia    snarled.      "What    are    you 


BREAKING  THE  NEWS 


smoking    for?     That    ain't    my    shirt;    it's    my  —  " 

"I  ain't  smokin',"  yelled  Heppie.  "You  won't  let 
me  tell  you.  I  spilled  vinegar  on  the  store;  tkafs 
what  you  smell." 

Miss  Letitia's  sardonic  chuckle  came  through  the 
door. 

"Vinegar,"  she  said  with  scorn.  "Next  thing  you'll 
be  telling  me  it's  vinegar  that  Harry  and  Mr.  Knox 
carry  around  in  little  boxes  in  their  pockets.  You're 
pinned  my  cap  to  my  scalp." 

I  hurried  down-stairs  to  find  Davidson  gone.  My 
blanket  lay  neatly  folded,  on  the  lower  step,  and  the 
horsehair  chairs  were  ranged  along  the  wall  as  be- 
fore. I  looked  around  anxiously  for  telltale  ashes, 
but  there  was  none,  save,  at  the  edge  of  the  spotlasa 
register,  a  trace.  Evidently  they  had  followed  the 
apple  parings.  It  grew  cold  a  day  or  so  later,  and 
Miss  Letitia  had  the  furnace  fired,  and  although  it 
does  not  belong  to  my  story,  she  and  Heppie  searched 
the  house  over  to  account  for  the  odor  of  baking  apples 
—  a  mystery  that  was  never  explained. 

Wardrop  did  not  appear  at  breakfast.  Margery 
came  down-stairs  as  Bella  was  bringing  me  my  cof- 
fee, and  dropped  languidly  into  her  chair.  She  looked 
tired  and  white. 

"Another  day!"  she  said  wearily.  "Did  you  ever 
live  through  such  an  eternity  as  the  last  thirty-six 
hours?" 

I  responded  absently;  the  duty  I  had  assumed  hung 
heavy  over  me.  I  had  a  frantic  impulse  to  shirk  the 


126    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

whole  thing :  to  go  to  Wardrop  and  tell  him  it  was  his 
responsibility,  not  mine,  to  make  this  sad-eyed  girl 
sadder  still.  That  as  I  had  not  his  privilege  of  com- 
forting her,  neither  should  I  shoulder  his  responsibility 
of  telling  her.  But  the  issue  was  forced  on  me  sooner 
than  I  had  expected,  for  at  that  moment  I  saw  the  glar- 
ing head-lines  of  the  morning  paper,  laid  open  at 
Wardrop's  plate. 

She  must  have  followed  my  eyes,  for  we  reached 
for  it  simultaneously.  She  was  nearer  than  I,  and 
her  quick  eye  caught  the  name.  Then  I  put  my  hand 
over  the  heading  and  she  flushed  with  indignation. 

"You  are  not  to  read  it  now,"  I  said,  meeting  her 
astonished  gaze  as  best  I  could.  "Please  let  me  have 
it.  I  promise  you  I  will  give  it  to  you — almost  im- 
mediately." 

"You  are  very  rude,"  she  said  without  relinquish- 
ing the  paper.  "I  saw  a  part  of  that;  it  is  about  my 
father!" 

"Drink  your  coffee,  please,"  I  pleaded.  "I  will  let 
you  read  it  then.  On  my  honor." 

She  looked  at  me;  then  she  withdrew  her  hand  and 
sat  erect. 

"How  can  you  be  so  childish !"  she  exclaimed.  "If 
there  is  anything  in  that  paper  that  it — will  hurt  me 
to  learn,  is  a  cup  of  coffee  going  to  make  it  any 
easier?" 

I  gave  up  then.  I  had  always  thought  that  people 
heard  bad  news  better  when  they  had  been  fortified 
with  something  to  eat,  and  I  had  a  very  distinct  recol- 


127 


lection  that  Fred  had  made  Edith  drink  something — tea 
probably — before  he  told  her  that  Billy  had  fallen  off 
the  ba.ck  fence  and  would  have  to  have  a  stitch  taken 
in  his  lip.  Perhaps  I  should  have  offered  Margery 
tea  instead  of  coffee.  But  as  it  was,  she  sat,  stonily 
erect,  staring  at  the  paper,  and  feeling  that  evasion 
would  be  useless,  I  told  her  what  had  happened,  break- 
ing the  news  as  gently  as  I  could. 

I  stood  by  her  helplessly  through  the  tearless  agony 
that  followed,  and  cursed  myself  for  a  blundering  ass. 
I  had  said  that  he  had  been  accidentally  shot,  and  I 
said  it  with  the  paper  behind  me,  but  she  put  the 
evasion  aside  bitterly. 

"Accidentally!"  she  repeated.  The  first  storm  ef 
grief  over,  she  lifted  her  head  from  where  it  had  rested 
on  her  arms  and  looked  at  me,  scorning  my  subter- 
fuge. "He  was  murdered.  That's  the  word  I  didn't 
have  time  to  read !  Murdered !  And  you  sat  back  and 
let  it  happen.  I  went  to  you  in  time  and  you  didn't 
do  anything.  No  one  did  anything !" 

I  did  not  try  to  defend  myself.  How  could  I? 
And  afterward  when  she  sat  up  and  pushed  back  the 
damp  strands  of  hair  from  her  eyes,  she  was  more 
reasonable. 

"I  did  not  mean  what  I  said  about  your  not  having 
done  anything,"  she  said,  almost  childishly.  "No  one 
could  have  done  more.  It  was  to  happen,  that's  all." 

But  even  then  I  knew  she  had  trouble  in  store  that 
she  did  not  suspect.  What  would  she  do  when  she 
heard  that  Wardrop  was  under  grave  suspicion?  Be- 


128    WIKDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

tween  her  dead  father  and  her  lover,  what?  It  was 
to  be  days  before  I  knew  and  in  all  that  time,  I,  who 
would  have  died,  not  cheerfully  but  at  least  stoically, 
for  her,  had  to  stand  back  and  watch  the  struggle,  not 
daring  to  hold  out  my  hand  to  help,  lest  by  the  very 
gesture  she  divine  my  wild  longing  to  hold  her  for 
myself. 

She  recovered  bravely  that  morning  from  the  shock, 
and  refusing  to  go  to  her  room  and  lie  down — a  sug- 
gestion, like  the  coffee,  culled  from  my  vicarious  do- 
mestic life — she  went  out  to  the  veranda  and  sat  there 
in  the  morning  sun,  gazing  across  the  lawn.  I  left  her 
there  finally,  and  broke  the  news'  of  her  brother-in- 
law's  death  to  Miss  Letitia.  After  the  first  surprise, 
the  old  lady  took  the  news  with  what  was  nearer  com- 
placency than  resignation. 

"Shot!"  she  said, .sitting  up  in  bed,  while  Heppie 
shook  her  pillows.  "It's  a  queer  death  for  Allan 
Fleming;  I  always  said  he  would  be  hanged." 

After  that,  she  apparently  dismissed  him  from  her 
mind,  and  we  talked  of  her  sister.  Her  mood  had 
changed  and  it  was  depressing  to  find  that  she  spoke 
of  Jane  always  in  the  past  tense.  She  could  speak 
of  her  quite  calmly — I  suppose  the  sharpness  of  our 
emotions  is  in  inverse  ratio  to  our  length  of  years, 
and  she  regretted  that,  under  the  circumstances,  Jane 
would  not  rest  in  the  family  lot. 

"We  are  all  there,"  she  said,  eleven  of  us,  count- 
ing my  sister  Mary's  husband,  although  he  don't 
properly  belong,  and  I  always  said  we  would  take 


BREAKING  THE  NEWS          129 

him  out  if  we  were  crowded.  It  is  the  best  lot  in  the 
Hopedale  Cemetery;  you  can  see  the  shaft  for  two 
miles  in  any  direction." 

We  held  a  family  council  that  morning  around 
Miss  Letitia's  bed:  Wardrop,  who  took  little  part  in 
the  proceedings,  and  who  stood  at  a  window  looking 
out  most  of  the  time,  Margery  on  the  bed,  her  arm 
around  Miss  Letitia's  shriveled  neck,  and  Heppie, 
who  acted  as  interpreter  and  shouted  into  the  old  lady's 
ear  such  parts  of  the  conversation  as  she  considered 
essential. 

"I  have  talked  with  Miss  Fleming,"  I  said,  as  clearly 
as  I  could,  "and  she  seems- to  shrink  from  seeing  people. 
The  only  friends  she  cares  about  are  in  Europe,  and 
she  tells  me  there  are  no  other  relatives." 

Heppie  condensed  this  into  a  vocal  capsule,  and 
thrust  it  into  Miss  Letitia's  ear.  The  old  lady  nodded. 

"No  other  relatives,"  she  corroborated.  "God  be 
praised  for  that,  anyhow." 

"And  yet,"  I  went  on,  "there  are  things  to  look 
after,  certain  necessary  duties  that  no  one  else  can 
attend  to.  I  don't  want  to  insist,  but  she  ought,  if 
she  is  able,  to  go  to  the  city  house,  for  a  few  hours, 
at  least." 

"City  house!"  Heppie  yelled  in  her  ear. 

"It  ought  to  be  cleaned,"  Miss  Letitia  acquiesced, 
"and  fresh  curtains  put  up.  Jane  would  have  been  in 
her  element ;  she  was  always  handy  at  a  funeral.  And 
don't  let  them  get  one  of  those  let-down-at-the-side  cof- 
fins. They're  leaky." 


130    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

Luckily  Margery  did  not  notice  this. 

"I  was  going  to  suggest,"  I  put  in  hurriedly,  "that 
my  brother's  wife  would  be  only  too  glad  to  help,  and  if 
Miss  Fleming  will  go  into  town  with  me,  I  am  sure 
Edith  would  know  just  what  to  do.  She  isn't  curious 
and  she's  very  capable." 

Margery  threw  me  a  grateful  glance,  grateful,  I 
think,  that  I  could  understand  how,  under  the  circum- 
stances, a  stranger  was  more  acceptable  than  curious 
friends  could  be. 

"Mr.  Knox's  sister-in-law!"  interpreted  Heppie. 

"When  you  have  to  say  the  letter  's,'  turn  your  head 
away,"  Miss  Letitia  rebuked  her.  "Well,  I  don't  ob- 
ject, if  Knox's  sister-in-law  don't."  She  had  an  un- 
canny way  of  expanding  Heppie's  tabloid  speeches. 
"You  can  take  my  white  silk  shawl  to  lay  over  the 
body,  but  be  sure  to  bring  it  back.  We  may  need 
it  for  Jane." 

If  the  old  lady's  chin  quivered  a  bit,  while  Mar- 
gery threw  her  arms  around  her,  she  was  mightily 
ashamed  of  it.  But  Heppie  was  made  of  weaker  stuff. 
She  broke  into  a  sudden  storm  of  sobs  and  left  the 
room,  to  stick  her  head  in  the  door  a  moment  after. 

"Kidneys  or  chops?"  she  shouted  almost  belliger- 
ently. 

"Kidneys,"  Miss  Letitia  replied  in  kind. 

Wardrop  went  with  us  to  the  station  at  noon,  but 

he  left  us  there,  with  a  brief  remark  that  he  would 

be  up  that  night.     After  I  had  put  Margery  in  a  seat, 

I  went  back  to  have  a  word  with  him  alone.     He 


131 


was  standing  beside  the  train,  trying  to  light  a  cig- 
arette, but  his  hands  shook  almost  beyond  control, 
and  after  the  fourth  match  he  gave  it  up.  My  minute 
for  speech  was  gone.  As  the  train  moved  out  I  saw 
him  walking  back  along  the  platform,  paying  no  at- 
tention to  anything  around  him.  Also,  I  had  a  fleet- 
ing glimpse  of  a  man  loafing  on  a  baggage  truck,  his 
hat  over  his  eyes.  He  was  paring  an  apple  with  a 
penknife,  and  dropping  the  peelings  with  careful  ac- 
curacy through  a  crack  in  the  floor  of  the  plat- 
form. 

I  had  arranged  over  the  telephone  that  Edith  should 
meet  the  train,  and  it  was  a  relief  to  see  that  she  and 
Margery  took  to  each  other  at  once.  We  drove  to 
the  house  immediately,  and  after  a  few  tears  when 
she  saw  the  familiar  things  around  her,  Margery  rose 
to  the  situation  bravely.  Miss  Letitia  had  sent  Bella 
to  put  the  house  in  order,  and  it  was  evident  that 
the  idea  of  clean  curtains  for  the  funeral  had  been 
drilled  into  her  until  it  had  become  an  obsession.  Not 
until  Edith  had  concealed  the  step-ladder  were  the 
hangings  safe,  and  late  in  the  afternoon  we  heard 
a  crash  from  the  library,  and  found  Bella  twisted 
on  the  floor,  the  result  of  putting  a  teakwood  tabouret 
on  a  table  and  from  thence  attacking  the  lace  cur- 
tains of  the  library  windows. 

Edith  gave  her  a  good  scolding  and  sent  her  off 
to  soak  her  sprained  ankle.  Then  she  righted  the 
tabouret,  sat  down  on  it  and  began  on  me. 

"Do  you  know  that  you  have  not  been  to  the  office 


132     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

for  two  days?"  she  said  severely.  "And  do  you 
know  that  Hawes  had  hysterics  in  our  front  hall  last 
night?  You  had  a  case  in  court  yesterday,  didn't 
you?" 

"Nothing  very  much,"  I  said,  looking  over  her 
head.  "Anyhow,  I'm  tired.  I  don't  know  when  I'm 
going  back.  I  need  a  vacation." 

She  reached  behind  her  and  pulling  the  cord,  sent 
the  window  shade  to  the  top  of  the  window.  At 
the  sight  of  my  face  thus  revealed,  she  drew  a  long 
sigh. 

"The  biggest  case  you  ever  had,  Jack!  The  big- 
gest retainer  you  ever  had — " 

"I've  spent  that,"  I  protested  feebly. 

"A  vacation,  and  you  only  back  from  Pinehurst!" 

"The  girl  was  in  trouble — is  in  trouble,  Edith/'  I 
burst  out.  "Any  one  would  have  done  the  same  thing. 
Even  Fred  would  hardly  have  deserted  that  household. 
It's  stricken,  positively  stricken." 

My  remark  about  Fred  did  not  draw  her  from  cover. 

"Of  course  it's  your  own  affair,"  she  said,  not  look- 
ing at  me,  "and  goodness  knows  I'm  disinterested 
about  it,  you  ruin  the  boys,  both  stomachs  and  dis- 
positions, and  I  could  use  your  room  splendidly  as 
a  sewing-room—" 

"Edith!     You  abominable  little  liar!" 

She  dabbed  at  her  eyes  furiously  with  her  handker- 
chief, and  walked  with  great  dignity  to  the  door. 
Then  she  came  back  and  put  her  hand  on  my  arm. 

"Oh,  Jack,  if  we  could  only  have  saved  you  this  1" 


BREAKING  THE  NEWS          133 

she  said,  and  a  minute  later,  when  I  did  not  speak: 
"Who  is  the  man,  dear?" 

"A  distant  relative,  Harry  Wardrop,"  I  replied,  with 
what  I  think  was  very  nearly  my  natural  tone.  "Don't 
worry,  Edith.  It's  all  right  I've  known  it  right 
along." 

"Pooh !"  Edith  returned  sagely.  "So  do  I  know  I've 
got  to  die  and  be  buried  some  day.  Its  being  inevit- 
able doesn't  make  it  any  more  cheerful."  She  went 
out,  but  she  came  back  in  a  moment  and  stuck  her 
head  through  the  door. 

"That's  the  only  inevitable  thing  there  is,"  she  said, 
taking  up  the  conversation — an  old  habit  of  hers — 
where  she  had  left  off. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about,"  I  re- 
torted, turning  my  back  on  her.  "And  anyhow,  I  re- 
gard your  suggestion  as  immoral."  But  when  I  turned 
again,  she  had  gone. 

That  Saturday  afternoon  at  four  o'clock  the  body 
of  Allan  Fleming  was  brought  home,  and  placed  in 
state  in  the  music-room  of  the  house. 

Miss  Jane  had  been  missing  since  Thursday  night. 
I  called  Hunter  by  telephone,  and  he  had  nothing  to 
report. 


CHAPTER  XI 

A  NIGHT  IN  THE  FLEMING  HOME 

I  HAD  a  tearful  message  from  Hawes  late  that  after- 
noon, and  a  little  after  five  I  went  to  the  office. 
I  found  him  offering  late  editions  of  the  evening  pa- 
per to  a  couple  of  clients,  who  were  edging  toward 
the  door.  His  expression  when  he  saw  me  was  pure 
relief,  the  clients',  relief  strongly  mixed  with  irrita- 
tion. 

I  put  the  best  face  on  the  matter  that  I  could,  saw 
my  visitors,  and  left  alone,  prepared  to  explain  to 
Hawes  what  I  could  hardly  explain  to  myself. 

"I've  been  unavoidably  detained,  Hawes,"  I  said, 
"Miss  Jane  Maitland  has  disappeared  from  her  home." 

"So  I  understood  you  over  the  telephone."  He 
had  brought  my  mail  and  stood  by  impassive. 

"Also,  her  brother-in-law  is  dead." 

"The  papers  are  full  of  it." 

"There  was  no  one  to  do  anything,  Hawes.  I  was 
obliged  to  stay,"  I  apologized.  I  was  ostentatiously 
examining  my  letters  and  Hawes  said  nothing.  I 
looked  up  at  him  sideways,  and  he  looked  down  at 
me.  Not  a  muscle  of  his  face  quivered,  save  one  eye, 
which  has  a  peculiar  twitching  of  the  lid  when  he  is 

134 


A  NIGHT  IN  FLEMING  HOME      135 

excited.  It  gave  him  a  sardonic  appearance  of  wink- 
ing. He  winked  at  me  then. 

"Don't  wait,  Hawes,"  I  said  guiltily,  and  he  took 
his  hat  and  went  out.  Every  line  of  his  back  was  ac- 
cusation. The  sag  of  his  shoulders  told  me  I  had 
let  my  biggest  case  go  by  default  that  day;  the  for- 
ward tilt  of  his  head,  that  I  was  probably  insane; 
the  very  grip  with  which  he  seized  the  door-knob, 
his  "good  night"  from  around  the  door,  that  he  knew 
,  there  was  a  woman  at  the  bottom  of  it  all.  As  he 
closed  the  door  behind  him  I  put  down  my  letters  and 
dropped  my  face  in  my  hands.  Hawes  was  right. 
[No  amount  of  professional  zeal  could  account  for 
the  interest  I  had  taken.  Partly  through  force  of 
circumstances,  partly  of  my  own  volition,  I  had  placed 
myself  in  the  position  of  first  friend  to  a  family  with 
which  I  had  only  professional  relations ;  I  had  even  en- 
listed Edith,  when  my  acquaintance  with  Margery 
Fleming  was  only  three  days  old !  And  at  the  thought 
of  the  girl,  of  Wardrop's  inefficiency  and  my  own  hope- 
lessness, I  groaned  aloud. 

I  had  not  heard  the  door  open. 

"I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  a  gentleman  was  here  half 
a  dozen  times  to-day  to  see  you.  He  didn't  give  any 
name." 

I  dropped  my  hands.  From  around  the  door 
Hawes'  nervous  eye  was  winking  wildly. 

"You're  not  sick,  Mr.  Knox?" 

"Never  felt  better." 

"I  thought  I  heard—" 


"I  was  singing,"  I  lied,  looking  him  straight  in  the 
eye. 

He  backed  nervously  to  the  door. 

"I  have  a  little  sherry  in  my  office,  Mr.  Knox — 
twenty-six  years  in  the  wood.  If  you — " 

"For  God's  sake,  Hawes,  there's  nothing  the  mat- 
ter with  me !"  I  exclaimed,  and  he  went.  But  I  heard 
him  stand  a  perceptible  time  outside  the  door  before 
he  tiptoed  away. 

Almost  immediately  after,  some  one  entered  the 
waiting-room,  and  the  next  moment  I  was  facing,  in 
the  doorway,  a  man  I  had  never  seen  before. 

He  was  a  tall  man,  with  thin,  colorless  beard  trim- 
med to  a  Vandyke  point,  arid  pale  eyes  blinking  be- 
hind glasses.  He  had  a  soft  hat  crushed  in  his  hand, 
and  his  whole  manner  was  one  of  subdued  excitement. 

"Mr.  Knox?"  he  asked,  from  the  doorway. 

"Yes.     Come  in." 

"I  have  been  here  six  times  since  noon,"  he  said, 
dropping  rather  than  sitting  in  a  chair.  "My  name 
is  Lightfoot.  I  am — was — Mr.  Fleming's  cashier." 

"Yes?" 

"I  was  terribly  shocked  at  the  news  of  his  death," 
he  stumbled  on,  getting  no  help  from  me.  "I  wTas  in 
town  and  if  I  had  known  in  time  I  could  have  kept 
some  of  the  details  out  of  the  papers.  Poor  Flem- 
ing— to  think  he  would  end  it  that  way." 

"End  it?" 

"Shoot  himself."     He  watched  me  closely. 

"But  he  didn't,"  I  protested.     "It  was  not  suicide, 


rA  NIGHT  IN  FLEMING  HOME      137 

Mr.  Light  foot.  According  to  the  police,  it  was  mur- 
der." 

His  cold  eyes  narrowed  like  a  cat's.  "Murder  is  an 
ugly  word,  Mr.  Knox.  Don't  let  us  be  sensational. 
Mr.  Fleming  had  threatened  to  kill  himself  more  than 
once ;  ask  young  Wardrop.  He  was  sick  and  despond- 
ent; he  left  his  home  without  a  word,  which  points 
strongly  to  emotional  insanity.  He  could  have  gone 
to  any  one  of  a  half  dozen  large  clubs  here,  or  at 
the  capital.  Instead,  he  goes  to  a  little  third-rate  po- 
litical club,  where,  presumably,  he  does  his  own  cooking 
and  hides  in  a  dingy  room.  Is  that  sane?  Murder! 
It  was  suicide,  and  that  puppy  Wardrop  knows  it  well 
enough.  I — I  wish  I  had  him  by  the  throat!" 

He  had  worked  himself  into  quite  a  respectable 
rage,  but  now  he  calmed  himself. 

"I  have  seen  the  police,"  he  went  on.  "They  agree 
with  me  that  it  was  suicide,  and  the  party  newspapers 
will  straighten  it  out  to-morrow.  It  is  only  unfortu- 
nate that  the  murder  theory  was  given  so  much  pub- 
licity. The  Times-Post,  which  is  Democratic,  of 
course,  I  can  not  handle." 

I  sat  stupefied. 

"Suicide!"  I  said  finally.  "With  no  weapon,  no 
powder  marks,  and  with  a  half-finished  letter  at  his 
elbow." 

He  brushed  my  interruption  aside. 

"Mr.  Fleming  had  been — careless,"  he  said.  "I  can 
tell  you  in  confidence,  that  some  of  the  state  funds  had 
been  deposited  in  the  Borough  Bank  of  Manchester, 


138     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

and — the  Borough  Bank  closed  its  doors  at  ten  o'clock 
to-day." 

I  was  hardly  surprised  at  that,  but  the  whole  trend 
of  events  was  amazing. 

"I  arrived  here  last  night,"  he  said,  "and  I  searched 
the  city  for  Mr.  Fleming.  This  morning  I  heard  the 
news.  I  have  just  come  from  the  house :  his  daughter 
referred  me  to  you.  After  all,  what  I  want  is  a  small 
matter.  Some  papers — state  documents — are  missing, 
and  no  doubt  are  among  Mr.  Fleming's  private  effects. 
I  would  like  to  go  through  his  papers,  and  leave  to- 
night for  the  capital." 

"I  have  hardly  the  authority,"  I  replied  doubtfully. 
"Miss  Fleming,  I  suppose,  would  have  no  objection. 
His  private  secretary,  Wardrop,  would  be  the  one  to 
superintend  such  a  search." 

"Can  you  find  Wardrop — at  once?" 

Something  in  his  eagerness  put  me  on  my  guard. 

"I  will  make  an  attempt,"  I  said.  "Let  me  have 
the  name  of  your  hotel,  and  I  will  telephone  you  if 
it  can  be  arranged  for  to-night." 

He  had  to  be  satisfied  with  that,  but  his  eagerness 
seemed  to  me  to  be  almost  desperation.  Oddly  enough, 
I  could  not  locate  Wardrop  after  all.  I  got  the  Mait- 
land  house  by  telephone,  to  learn  that  he  had  left  there 
about  three  o'clock,  and  had  not  come  back. 

I  went  to  the  Fleming  house  for  dinner.  Edith 
was  still  there,  and  we  both  tried  to  cheer  Margery, 
a  sad  little  figure  in  her  black  clothes.  After  the 
meal,  I  called  Light  foot  at  his  hotel,  and  told  him  that 


A  NIGHT  IN  FLEMING  HOME      139 

I  could  not  find  Wardrop;  that  there  were  no  papers 
at  the  house,  and  that  the  office  safe  would  have  to 
wait  until  Wardrop  was  found  to  open  it.  He  was 
disappointed  and  furious;  like  a  good  many  men  who 
are  physical  cowards,  he  said  a  great  deal  over  the  tele- 
phone that  he  would  not  have  dared  to  say  to  my  face, 
and  I  cut  him  off  by  hanging  up  the  receiver.  From 
that  minute,  in  the  struggle  that  was  coming,  like  Fred, 
I  was  "forninst"  the  government. 

It  was  arranged  that  Edith  should  take  Margery 
home  with  her  for  the  night.  I  thought  it  a  good 
idea;  the  very  sight  of  Edith  tucking  in  her  babies 
and  sitting  down  beside  the  library  lamp  to  embroider 
me  a  scarfpin-holder  for  Christmas  would  bring  Mar- 
gery back  to  normal  again.  Except  in  the  matter  of 
Christmas  gifts,  Edith  is  the  sanest  woman  I  know;  I 
recognized  it  at  the  dinner  table,  where  she  had  the 
little  girl  across  from  her  planning  her  mourning  hats 
before  the  dinner  was  half  finished. 

When  we  rose  at  last,  Margery  looked  toward  the 
music-room,  where  the  dead  man  lay  in  state.  But 
Edith  took  her  by  the  arm  and  pushed  her  toward 
the  stairs. 

"Get  your  hat  on  right  away,  while  Jack  calls  a 
cab,"  she  directed.  "I  must  get  home,  or  Fred  will 
keep  the  boys  up  until  nine  o'clock.  He  is  absolutely 
without  principle." 

When  Margery  came  down  there  was  a  little  red 
spot  burning  in  each  pale  cheek,  and  she  ran  down 
the  stairs  like  a  scared  child.  At  the  bottom  she 


140    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

clutched  the  newel-post  and  looked  behind  fearfully. 

"What's  the  matter  ?"  Edith  demanded,  glancing  un- 
easily over  her  shoulder. 

"Some  one  has  been  up-stairs,"  Margery  panted. 
"Somebody  has  been  staying  in  the  house  while  we  were 
away." 

"Nonsense,"  I  said,  seeing  that  her  fright  was  in- 
fecting Edith.  "What  makes  you  think  that  ?" 

"Come  and  look,"  she  said,  gaining  courage,  I  sup- 
pose, from  a  masculine  presence.  And  so  we  went  up 
the  long  stairs,  the  two  girls  clutching  hands,  and  I 
leading  the  way  and  inclined  to  scoff. 

At  the  door  of  a  small  room  next  to  what  had  been 
Allan  Fleming's  bedroom,  we  paused  and  I  turned  on 
the  light. 

"Before  we  left,"  Margery  said  more  quietly,  "I 
closed  this  room  myself.  It  had  just  been  done  over, 
and  the  pale  blue  soils  so  easily.  I  came  in  the  last 
thing,  and  saw  covers  put  over  everything.  Now  look 
at  it!" 

It  was  a  sort  of  boudoir,  filled  with  feminine  knick- 
knacks  and  mahogany  lounging  chairs.  Wherever  pos- 
sible, a  pale!  brocade  had  been  used,  on  the  empire 
couch,  in  panels  in  the  wall,  covering  cushions  on  the 
window-seat.  It  was  evidently  Margery's  private  sit- 
ting-room. 

The  linen  cover  that  had  been  thrown  over  the 
divan  was  folded  back,  and  a  pillow  from  the  win- 
dow-seat bore  the  imprint  of  a  head.  The  table  was 
still  covered,  knobby  protuberances  indicating  the  pic- 


A  NIGHT  IN  FLEMING  HOME      141 

tures  and  books  beneath.  On  one  corner  of  the  table, 
where  the  cover  had  been  pushed  aside,  was  a  cup, 
empty  and  clean- washed,  and  as  if  to  prove  her  conten- 
tion, Margery  picked  up  from  the  floor  a  newspaper, 
dated  Friday  morning,  the  twenty-second. 

A  used  towel  in  the  bath-room  near-by  completed 
the  inventory ;  Margery  had  been  right ;  some  one  had 
used  the  room  while  the  house  was  closed. 

"Might  it  not  have  been  your — father?"  Edith 
asked,  when  we  stood  again  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 
"He  could  have  come  here  to  look  for  something,  and 
lain  down  to  rest." 

"I  don't  think  so,"  Margery  said  wanly.  "I  left  the 
door  so  he  could  get  in  with  his  key,  but — he  always 
used  his  study  couch.  I  don't  think  he  ever  spent  five 
minutes  in  my  sitting-room  in  his  life." 

We  had  to  let  it  go  at  that  finally.  I  put  them  in 
a  cab,  and  saw  them  start  away :  then  I  went  back  into 
the  house.  I  had  arranged  to  sleep  there  and  generally 
to  look  after  things — as  I  said  before.  Whatever 
scruples  I  had  had  about  taking  charge  of  Margery 
Fleming  and  her  affairs,  had  faded  with  Wardrop's 
defection  and  the  new  mystery  of  the  blue  bou- 
doir. 

The  lower  floor  of  the  house  was  full  of  people 
that  night,  local  and  state  politicians,  newspaper  men 
and  the  us-ual  crowd  of  the  morbidly  curious.  The 
undertaker  took  everything  in  hand,  and  late  that  eve- 
ning I  could  hear  them  carrying  in  tropical  plants  and 
stands  for  the  flowers  that  were  already  arriving. 


142     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

Whatever  panoply  the  death  scene  had  lacked,  Allan 
Fleming  was  lying  in  state  now.    . 

At  midnight  things  grew  quiet.  I  sat  in  the  library, 
reading,  until  then-,  when  an  undertaker's  assistant  in 
a  pink  shirt  and  polka-dot  cravat  came  to  tell  me  that 
everything  was  done. 

"Is  it  customary  for  sctnebody  to  stay  up,  on  oc- 
casions like  this?"  I  askejl  "Isn't  there  an  impres- 
sion that  wandering  cats  may  get  into  the  room,  or 
something  of  that  sort  ?" 

"I  don't  think  it  will  be  necessary,  sir,"  he  said,  try- 
ing to  conceal  a  smile.  "It's  all  a  matter  of  taste. 
Some  people  like  to  take  their  troubles  hard.  Since 
they  don't  put  money  on  their  eyes  any  more,  nobody 
wants  to  rob  the  dead." 

He  left  with  that  cheerful  remark,  and  I  closed 
and  locked  the  house  after  him.  I  found  Belb  in 
the  basement  kitchen  with  all  the  lights  burning  full, 
and  I  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  while  she  scooted 
to  bed  like  a  scared  rabbit.  She  was  a  strange  crea- 
ture, Bella — not  so  stupid  as  she  looked,  but  sullen, 
morose — "smouldering"  about  expresses  it. 

•I  closed  the  doors  into  the  dining-room  and,  leaving 
one  light  in  the  hall,  went  up  to  bed.  A  guest  room 
in  the  third  story  had  been  assigned  me,  and  I  was 
tired  enough  to  have  slept  on  the  floor.  The  tele- 
phone bell  rang  just  after  I  got  into  bed,  and  grum- 
bling at  my  luck,  I  went  down  to  the  lower  floor. 

It  was  the  Times-Post,  and  the  man  at  the  tele- 
phone was  in  a  hurry. 


A  NIGHT  IN  FLEMING  HOME      143 

"This  is  the  Times-Post.     Is  Mr.  Wardrop  there?" 

"No." 

"Who  is  this?" 

"This  is  John  Knox." 

"The  attorney?" 

"Yes." 

"Mr.  Knox,  are  you  willing  to  put  yourself  on  rec- 
ord that  Mr.  Fleming  committed  suicide?" 

"I  am,  not  going  to  put  myself  on  record  at  all." 

"To-night's  Star  says  you  call  it  suicide,  and  that 
you  found  him  with  the  revolver  in  his  hand." 

"The  Star  lies!"  I  retorted,  and  the  man  at  the 
other  end  chuckled. 

"Many  thanks,"  he  said,  and  rang  off. 

I  went  back  to  bed,  irritated  that  I  had  betrayed  my- 
self. Loss  of  sleep  for  two  nights,  however,  had  told 
on  me :  in  a  short  time  I  was  sound  asleep. 

I  wakened  with  difficulty.  My  head  felt  stupid  and 
heavy,  and  I  was  burning  with  thirst.  I  sat  up  and 
wondered  vaguely  if  I  were  going  to  be  ill,  and  I  re- 
member that  I  felt  too  weary  to  get  a  drink.  As  I 
roused,  however,  I  found  that  part  of  my  discomfort 
came  from  bad  ventilation,  and  I  opened  a  window  and 
looked  out. 

The  window  was  a  side  one,  opening  on  to  a  space 
perhaps  eight  feet  wide,  which  separated  it  from  its 
neighbor.  Across  from  me  was  only  a  blank  red  wall, 
but  the  night  air  greeted  me  refreshingly.  The  wind 
was  blowing  hard,  and  a  shutter  was  banging  some- 
where below.  I  leaned  out  and  looked  down  into  the 


144.     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

"well-like  space  beneath  me.  It  was  one  of  those  ap- 
parently chance  movements  that  have  vital  consequen- 
ces, and  that  have  always  made  me  believe  in  the  old 
jCalvinistic  creed  of  foreordination. 

Below  me,  on  the  wall  across,  was  a  rectangle  of  yel- 
low light,  reflected  from  the  library  window  of  the 
Fleming  home.  There  was  some  one  in  the  house. 

As  I  still  stared,  the  light  was  slowly  blotted  out — 
toot  as  if  the  light  had  been  switched  off,  but  by  a  grad- 
ual decreasing  in  size  of  the  lighted  area.  The  li- 
t>rary  shade  had  been  drawn. 

My  first  thought  was  burglars:  my  second — Light- 
Ifoot.  No  matter  who  it  was,  there  was  no  one  who 
had  business  there.  Luckily,  I  had  brought  my  revol- 
4Ver  with  me  from  Fred's  that  day,  and  it  was  under 
my  pillow;  to  get  it,  put  out  the  light  and  open  the 
door  quietly,  took  only  a  minute!  I  was  in  pajamas, 
barefoot,  as  on  another  almost  similar  occasion,  but  I 
(tvas  better  armed  than  before. 

I  got  to  the  second  floor  without  hearing  or  seeing 
anything  suspicious,  but  from  there  I  could  see  that  the 
light  in  the  hall  had'  been  extinguished.  The  unfamili- 
fcrity  of  the  house,  the  knowledge  of  the  silent  figure 
in  the  drawing-room  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and  of 
(whatever  might  be  waiting  in  the  library  beyond,  made 
tny  position  uncomfortable,  to  say  the  least. 

I  don't  believe  in  the  man  who  is  never  afraid:  he 

Hoesn't  deserve  the  credit  he  gets.     It's  the  fellow  who 

Is  scared  to  death,  whose  knees  knock  together,  and 

,  who  totters  rather  than  walks  into  danger,  who  is  the 


A  NIGHT  IN  FLEMING  HOME      145 

real  hero.  Not  that  I  was  as  bad  as  that,  but  I 
would  have  liked  to  know  where  the  electric  switch  was, 
and  to  have  seen  the  trap  before  I  put  my  head  in. 

The  stairs  were  solidly  built,  and  did  not  creek.  I 
felt  my  way  down  by  the  baluster,  which  required  my 
right  hand,  and  threw  my  revolver  to  my  left.  I  got 
safely  to  the  bottom,  and  around  the  newel-post :  there 
was  still  a  light  in  the  library,  and  the  door  was  not 
entirely  closed.  Then,  with  my  usual  bad  luck,  I  ran 
into  a  heap  of  folding  chairs  that  had  been  left  by  the 
undertaker,  and  if  the  crash  paralyzed  me,  I  don't  know 
what  it  did  to  the  intruder  in  the  library. 

The  light  was  out  in  an  instant,  and  with  conceal- 
ment at  an  end,  I  broke  for  the  door  and  threw  it 
open,  standing  there  with  my  revolver  leveled.  We — 
the  man  in  the  room,  and  I — were  both  in  absolute 
darkness.  He  had  the  advantage  of  me.  He  knew 
my  location,  and  I  could  not  guess  his. 

"Who  is  here?"  I  demanded. 

Only  silence,  except  that  I  seemed  to  hear  rapid 
breathing. 

"Speak  up,  or  I'll  shoot!"  I  said,  not  without  an 
ugly  feeling  that  he  might  be — even  probably  was — 
taking  careful  aim  by  my  voice.  The  darkness  was 
intolerable :  I  reached  cautiously  to  the  left  and  found, 
just  beyond  the  door  frame,  the  electric  switch.  As 
I  turned  it  the  light  flashed  up.  The  room  was  empty, 
but  a  portiere  in  a  doorway  at  my  right  was  still  shak- 
ing. 

I  leaped  for  the  curtain  and  dragged  it  aside,  to  have 


146    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

a  door  just  close  in  my  face.  When  I  had  jerked  it 
open,  I  found  myself  in  a  short  hall,  and  there  were 
footsteps  to  my  left.  I  blundered  along  in  the  semi- 
darkness,  into  a  black  void  which  must  have  been  the 
dining-room,  for  my  outstretched  hand  skirted  the 
table.  The  footsteps  seemed  only  beyond  my  reach, 
and  at  the  other  side  of  the  room  the  swinging  door 
into  the  pantry  was  still  swaying  when  I  caught  it. 

I  made  a  misstep  in  the  pantry,  and  brought  up 
against  a  Hank  wall.  It  seemed  to  me  I  heard  the 
sound  of  feet  running  up  steps,  and  when  I  found  a 
door  at  last,  I  threvr  it  open  and  dashed  in. 

The  next  moment  the  solid  earth  slipped  from  un- 
der my  feet,  I  threw  out  my  hand,  and  it  met  a  cold 
wall,  smooth  as  glass.  Then  I  fell — fell  an  incalcu- 
lable distance,  and  the  blackness  of  the  night  came  over 
me  and  smothered  me. 


CHAPTER  XII 

MY    COMMISSION 

WHEN  I  came  to,  I  was  lying  m  darkness,  and 
the  stillness  was  absolute.  When  I  tried  to 
move,  I  found  I  was  practically  a  prisoner :  I  had  fallen 
into  an  air  shaft,  or  something  of  the  kind.  I  could 
not  move  my  arms,  where  they  were  pinioned  to  my 
sides,  and  I  was  half-lying,  half-crouching,  in  a  semi- 
vertical  position.  I  worked  one  arm  loose  and  man- 
aged to  make  out  that  my  prison  was  probably  the 
dumb-waiter  shaft  to  the  basement  kitchen. 

I  had  landed  on  top  of  the  slide,  and  I  seemed  to 
be  tied  in  a  knot.  The  revolver  was  under  me,  and 
if  it  had  exploded  during  the  fall  it  had  done  no 
damage.  I  can  hardly  imagine  a  more  unpleasant  posi- 
tion. If  the  man  I  had  been  following  had  so  chosen, 
he  could  have  made  away  with  me  in  any  one  of  a 
dozen  unpleasant  ways — he  could  have  filled  me  as 
full  of  holes  as  a  sieve,  or  scalded  me,  or  done  anything, 
pretty  much,  that  he  chose.  But  nothing  happened. 
The  house  was  impressively  quiet. 

I  had  fallen  feet  first,  evidently,  and  then  crum- 
pled up  unconscious,  for  one  of  my  ankles  was  throb- 
bing. It  was  some  time  before  I  could  stand  erect, 

147 


148     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

and  even  by  reaching,  I  could  not  touch  the  doorway 
above  me.  It  must  have  taken  five  minutes  for  my  con- 
fused senses  to  remember  the  wire  cable,  and  to  tug  at 
it.  I  was  a  heavy  load  for  the  slide,  accustomed  to 
nothing  weightier  than  political  dinners,  but  with  much 
creaking  I  got  myself  at  last  to  the  floor  above,  and 
stepped  out,  still  into  darkness,  but  free. 

I  still  held  the  revolver,  and  I  lighted  the  whole 
lower  floor.  But  I  found  nothing  in  the  dining-room 
or  the  pantry.  Everything  was  locked  and  in  good 
order.  A  small  alcove  off  the  library  came  next; 
it  was  undisturbed,  but  a  tabouret  lay  on  its  side,  and 
a  half  dozen  books  had  been  taken  from  a  low  book- 
case, and  lay  heaped  on  a  chair.  In  the  library,  how- 
ever, everything  was  confusion.  Desk  drawers  stood 
open — one  of  the  linen  shades  had  been  pulled  partly 
off  its  roller,  a  chair  had  been  drawn  up  to  the  long 
mahogany  table  in  the  center  of  the  room,  with  the 
electric  dome  overhead,  and  everywhere,  on  chairs, 
over  the  floor,  heaped  in  stacks  on  the  table,  were  pa- 
pers. 

After  searching  the  lower  floor,  and  finding  every- 
thing securely  locked,  I  went  up-stairs,  convinced  the 
intruder  was  still  in  the  house.  I  made  a  systematic 
search  of  every  room,  looking  into  closets  and  under 
beds.  Several  times  I  had  an  impression,  as  I  turned 
a  corner,  that  some  one  was  just  ahead  of  me,  but  I 
was  always  disappointed.  I  gave  up  at  last,  and, 
going  down  to  the  library,  made  myself  as  comfort- 
able as  I  could,  and  waited  for  morning. 


MY  COMMISSION 149 

I  heard  Bella  coming  down  the  stairs,  after  seven 
sometime ;  she  came  slowly,  with  flagging  footsteps, 
as  if  the  slightest  sound  would  send  her  scurrying  to 
the  upper  regions  again.  A  little  later  I  heard  her 
rattling  the  range  in  the  basement  kitchen,  and  I  went . 
up-stairs  and  dressed. 

I  was  too  tired  to  have  a  theory  about  the  night 
visitor;  in  fact,  from  that  time  on,  I  tried  to  have  no 
theories  of  any  kind.  I  was  impressed  with  only  one 
thing — that  the  enemy  or  enemies  of  the  late  Allan 
Fleming  evidently  carried  their  antagonism  beyond 
the  grave.  As  I  put  on  my  collar  I  wondered  how 
long  I  could  stay  in  this  game,  as  I  now  meant  to,  and 
avoid  lying  in  state  in  Edith's  little  drawing-room, 
with  flowers  around  and  a  gentleman  in  black  gloves 
at  the  door. 

I  had  my  ankle  strapped  with  adhesive  that  morn- 
ing  by  my  doctor  and  it  gave  me  no  more  trouble. 
But  I  caught  him  looking  curiously  at  the  blue  bruise 
on  my  forehead  where  Wardrop  had  struck  me  with 
the  chair,  and  at  my  nose,  no  longer  swollen,  but  mus- 
tard-yellow at  the  bridge. 

"Been  doing  any  boxing  lately,"  he  said,  as  I  laced^ 
up  my  shoe. 

"Not  for  two  or  three  years/' 

"New  machine  ?" 

"No." 

He  smiled  at  me  quizzically  from  his  desk. 

"How  does  the  other  fellow  look?"  he  inquired, 
and  to  my  haltingly  invented  explanation  of  my  bat- 


150    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

tered  appearance,  he  returned  the  same  enigmatical 
smile. 

That  day  was  uneventful.  Margery  and  Edith 
came  to  the  house  for  about  an  hour  and  went  back 
to  Fred's  again. 

A  cousin  of  the  dead  man,  an  elderly  bachelor  named 
Parker,  appeared  that  morning  and  signified  his  will- 
ingness to  take  charge  of  the  house  during  that  day. 
The  very  hush  of  his  voice  and  his  black  tie  prompted 
Edith  to  remove  Margery  from  him  as  soon  as  she 
could,  and  as  the  girl  dreaded  the  curious  eyes  of  the 
crowd  that  filled  the  house,  she  was  glad  to  go. 

It  was  Sunday,  and  I  went  to  the  office  only  long 
enough  to  look  over  my  mail.  I  dined  in  the  middle 
of  the  day  at  Fred's,  and  felt  heavy  and  stupid  all 
afternoon  as  a  result  of  thus  reversing  the  habits  of  the 
week.  In  the  afternoon  I  had  my  first  conversation 
with  Fred  and  Edith,  while  Margery  and  the  boys 
talked  quietly  in  the  nursery.  They  had  taken  a  great 
fancy  to  her,  and  she  was  almost  cheerful  when  she 
was  with  them. 

•Fred  had  the  morning  papers  around  him  on  the 
floor,  and  was  in  his  usual  Sunday  argumentative 
mood. 

"Well,"  he  said,  when  the  nursery  door  up-stairs 
had  closed,  "what  was  it,  Jack  ?  Suicide  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  I  replied  bluntly. 

"What  do  you  think?"  he  insisted. 

"How  can  I  tell  ?"  irritably.  "The  police  say  it  was 
suicide,  and  they  ought  to  know." 


MY  COMMISSION  151 

"The  Times-Post  says  it  was  murder,  and  that  they 
will  prove  it.  And  they  claim  the  police  have  been 
called  off." 

I  said  nothing  of  Mr.  Light  foot,  and  his  visit  to  the 
office,  but  I  made  a  mental  note  to  see  the  Times-Post 
people  and  learn,  if  I  could,  what  they  knew. 

"I  can  not  help  thinking  that  he  deserved  very  nearly 
what  he  got,"  Edith  broke  in,  looking  much  less  vindic- 
tive than  her  words.  "When  one  thinks  of  the  ruin  he 
brought  to  poor  Henry  Butler,  and  that  Ellen  has  been 
practically  an  invalid  ever  since,  I  can't  be  sorry  for 
him." 

"What  was  the  Butler  story?"  I  asked.  But  Fred 
did  not  know,  and  Edith  was  as  vague  as  women 
usually  are  in  politics. 

"Henry  Butler  was  treasurer  of  th'e  state,  and  Mr. 
Fleming  was  his  cashier.  I  don't  know  just  what  the 
trouble  was.  But  you  remember  that  Henry  Butler 
killed  himself  after  he  got  out  of  the  penitentiary,  and 
Ellen  has  been  in  one  hospital  after  another.  I  would 
like  to  have  her  come  here  for  a  few  weeks,  Fred," 
she  said  appealingly.  "She  is  in  some  sanatorium  or 
other  now,  and  we  might  cheer  her  a  little." 

Fred  groaned. 

"Have  her  if  you  like,  petty,"  he  said  resignedly, 
"but  I  refuse  to  be  cheerful  unless  I  feel  like  it.  What 
about  this  young  Wardrop,  Jack  ?  It  looks  to  me  as  if 
the  Times-Post  reporter  had  a  line  on  him." 

"Hush,"  Edith  said  softly.  "He  is  Margery's 
fiance,  and  she  might  hear  you." 


152    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

"How  do  you  know?"  Fred  demanded.  "Did  she 
tell  you?" 

"Look  at  her  engagement  ring,"  Edith  threw  back 
triumphantly.  "And  it's  a  perfectly  beautiful  solitaire, 
too." 

I  caught  Fred's  eye  on  me,  and  the  very  speed  with 
which  he  shifted  his  gaze  made  me  uncomfortable. 
I  made  my  escape  as  soon  as  I  could,  on  the  plea  of 
going  out  to  Bellwood,  and  in  the  hall  up-stairs  I  met 
Margery. 

"I  saw  Bella  to-day,"  she  said.  "Mr.  Knox,  wiU 
you  tell  me  why  you  stayed  up  last  night?  What 
happened  in  the  house  ?" 

"I — thought  I  heard  some  one  in  the  library,"  I 
stammered,  "but  I  found  no  one." 

"Is  that  all  the  truth  or  only  part  of  it  ?"  she  asked. 
"Why  do  men  always  evade  issues  with  a  woman?" 
Luckily,  woman-like,  she  did  not  wait  for  a  reply. 
She  closed  the  nursery  door  and  stood  with  her  hand 
on  the  knob,  looking  down. 

"I  wonder  what  you  believe  about  all  this,"  she  said. 
"Do  you  think  my  father — killed  himself  ?  You  were 
there;  you  know.  If  some  one  would  only  tell  me 
everything !" 

It  seemed  to  me  it  was  her  right  to  know.  The  boys 
were  romping  noisily  in  the  nursery.  Downstairs 
Fred  and  Edith  were  having  their  Sunday  afternoon 
discussion  of  what  in  the  world  had  become  of  the 
money  from  Fred's  latest  book.  Margery  and  I  sat 


MY  COMMISSION 153 

down  on  the  stairs,  and,  as  well  as  I  could  remember 
the  details,  I  told  her  what  had  happened  at  the  White 
Cat.  She  heard  me  through  quietly. 

"And  so  the  police  have  given  up  the  case!"  she 
said  despairingly.  "And  if  they  had  not,  Harry  would 
have  been  arrested.  Is  there  nothing  I  can  do?  Do 
I  have  to  sit  back  with  my  hands  folded  ?" 

"The  police  have  not  exactly  given  up  the  case,"  I 
told  her,  "but  there  is  such  a  thing,  of  course,  as  stir- 
ring up  a  lot  of  dust  and  then  running  to  cover  like 
blazes  before  it  settles.  By  the  time  the  public  has 
wiped  it  out  of  its  eyes  and  sneezed  it  out  of  its  nose 
and  coughed  it  out  of  its  larynx,  the  dust  has  settled 
in  a  heavy  layer,  clues  are  obliterated,  and  the  public 
lifts  its  skirts  and  chooses  another  direction.  The  'no 
thoroughfare*  sign  is  up." 

She  sat  there  for  fifteen  minutes,  interrupted  by  oc- 
casional noisy  excursions  from  the  nursery,  which  re- 
sulted in  her  acquiring  by  degrees  a  lapful  of  broken 
wheels,  three-legged  horses  and  a  live  water  beetle 
which  the  boys  had  found  under  the  kitchen  sink  and 
imprisoned  in  a  glass  topped  box,  where,  to  its  be- 
wilderment, they  were  assiduously  offering  it  dead  and 
mangled  flies.  But  ouf  last  five  minutes  were  undis- 
turbed, and  the  girl  brought  out  with  an  effort  the  re- 
quest she  had  tried  to  make  all  day. 

"Whoever  killed  my  father — and  it  was  murder,  Mr. 
Knox — whoever  did  it  is  going  free  to  save  a  scandal. 
All  my — friends" — she  smiled  bitterly — "are  afraid  of 


154     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

the  same  thing.  But  I  can  not  sit  quiet  and  think 
nothing  can  be  done.  I  must,  know,  and  you  are  the 
only  one  who  seems  willing  to  try  to  find  out." 

So  it  was,  that,  whea  I  left  the  house  a  half  hour 
later,  I  was  committed.  I  had  been  commissioned  by 
the  girl  I  loved — for  it  had  come  to  that — to  clear  her 
lover  of  her  father's  murder,  and  so  give  him  back 
to  her — not  in  so  many  words,  but  I  was  to  follow  up 
the  crime,  and  the  rest  followed.  And  I  was  morally 
certain  of  two  things — first,  that  her  lover  was  not 
worthy  of  her,  and  second,  and  more  to  the  point,  that 
innocent  or  guilty,  he  was  indirectly  implicated  in  the 
crime. 

I  had  promised  her  also  to  see  Miss  Letitia  that  day 
if  I  could,  and  I  turned  over  the  events  of  the  preceding 
night  as  I  walked  toward  the  station,  but  I  made  noth- 
ing of  them.  One  thing  occurred  to  me,  however. 
Bella  had  told  Margery  that  I  had  been  up  all  night. 
Could  Bella — ?  But  I  dismissed  the  thought  as  absurd 
— Bella,  who  had  scuttled  to  bed  in  a  panic  of  fright, 
would  never  have  dared  the  lower  floor  alone,  and  Bella, 
given  all  the  courage  in  the  world,  could  never  have 
moved  with  the  swiftness  and  light  certainty  of  my 
midnight  prowler.  It  had  not  been  Bella. 

But  after  all  I  did  not  go  to  Bellwood.  I  met  Hun- 
ter on  my  way  to  the  station,  and  he  turned  around 
and  walked  with  me. 

"So  you've  lain  down  on  the  case !"  I  said,  when  we 
had  gone  a  few  steps  without  speaking. 


MY  COMMISSION  155 

He  grumbled  something  unintelligible  and  probably 
unrepeatable. 

"Of  course,"  I  persisted,  "being  a  simple  and  un- 
complicated case  of  suicide,  there  was  nothing  in  it 
anyhow.  If  it  had  been  a  murder,  under  peculiar  cir- 
cumstances— " 

He  stopped  and  gripped  my  arm. 

"For  ten  cents,"  he  said  gravely,  "I  would  tell  the 
chief  and  a  few  others  what  I  think  of  them.  And 
then  I'd  go  out  and  get  full." 

"Not  on  ten  cents !" 

"I'm  going  out  of  the  business,"  he  stormed.  "I'm 
going  to  drive  a  garbage  wagon :  it's  cleaner  than  this 
job.  Suicide !  I  never  saw  a  cleaner  case  of — "  He 
stopped  suddenly.  "Do  you  know  Burton — of  the 
Times-Post?" 

"No:  I've  heard  of  him." 

"Well,  he's  your  man.  They're  dead  against  the 
ring,  and  Burton's  been  given  the  case.  He's  as  sharp 
as  a  steel  trap.  You  two  get  together." 

He  paused  at  a  corner.  "Good-by,"  he  said  de- 
jectedly. "I'm  off  to  hunt  some  boys  that  have  been 
stealing  milk  bottles.  That's  about  my  size,  these 
days."  He  turned  around,  however,  before  he  had 
gone  many  steps  and  came  back. 

"Wardrop  has  been  missing  since  yesterday  after- 
noon," he  said.  "That  is,  he  thinks  he's  missing. 
iWe've  got  him  all  right." 

I  gave  up  my  Bellwood  visit  for  the  time,  and  tak- 


156    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

ing  a  car  down-town,  I  went  to  the  Times-Post  office. 
The  Monday  morning  edition  was  already  under  way, 
as  far  as  the  staff  was  concerned,  and  from  the  wait- 
ing-room I  could  see  three  or  four  men,  with  their  hats 
on,  most  of  them  rattling  typewriters.  Burton  came 
in  in  a  moment,  a  red-haired  young  fellow,  with  a 
short  thick  nose  and  a  muggy  skin.  He  was  rather 
stocky  in  build,  and  the  pugnacity  of  his  features  did 
not  hide  the  shrewdness  of  his  eyes. 

I  introduced  myself,  and  at  my  name  his  perfunc- 
tory manner  changed. 

"Knox !"  he  said.  "I  called  you  last  night  over  the 
'phone." 

"Can't  we  talk  in  a  more  private  place?"  I  asked, 
trying  to  raise  my  voice  above  the  confusion  of  the 
next  room.  In  reply  he  took  me  into  a  tiny  office, 
containing  a  desk  and  two  chairs,  and  separated  by 
an  eight-foot  partition  from  the  other  room. 

"This  is  the  best  we  have,"  he  explained  cheerfully. 
"Newspapers  are  agents  of  publicity,  not  privacy — if 
you  don't  care  what  you  say." 

I  liked  Burton.  There  was  something  genuine  about 
him ;  after  Wardrop's  kid-glove  finish,  he  was  a  relief. 

"Hunter,  of  the  detective  bureau,  sent  me  here," 
I  proceeded,  "about  the  Fleming  case." 

He  took  out  his  note-book.  "You  are  the  fourth 
to-day,"  he  said.  "Hunter  himself,  Lightfoot  from 
Plattsburg,  and  McFeely  here  in  town.  Well,  Mr. 
Knox,  are  you  willing  now  to  put  yourself  on  record 
that  Fleming  committed  suicide?" 


MY  COMMISSION  157 

"No,"  I  said  firmly.  "It  is  my  belief  that  he  was 
murdered." 

"And  that  the  secretary  fellow,  what's  his  name? 
— Wardrop? — that  he  killed  him?" 

"Possibly." 

In  reply  Burton  fumbled  in  his  pocket  and  brought 
up  a  pasteboard  box,  filled  with  jeweler's  cotton.  Un- 
derneath was  a  small  object,  which  he  passed  to  me  with 
care. 

"I  got  it  from  the  coroner's  physician,  who  per- 
formed the  autopsy,"  he  said  casually.  "You  will  no- 
tice that  it  is  a  thirty-two,  and  that  the  revolver  they 
took  from  Wardrop  was  a  thirty-eight.  Question, 
where's  the  other  gun?" 

I  gave  him  back  the  bullet,  and  he  rolled  it  around 
on  the  palm  of  his  hand. 

"Little  thing,  isn't  it?"  he  said.  "We  think  we're 
lords  of  creation,  until  we  see  a  quarter-inch  bichloride 
tablet,  or  a  bit  of  lead  like  this.  Look  here."  He 
dived  into  his  pocket  again  and  drew  out  a  roll  of 
ordinary  brown  paper.  When  he  opened  it  a  bit  of 
white  chalk  fell  on  the  desk. 

"Look  at  that,"  he  said  dramatically.  "Kill  an 
army  with  it,  and  they'd  never  know  what  struck  them. 
Cyanide  of  potassium — and  the  druggist  that  sold  it 
ought  to  be  choked." 

"Where  did  it  come  from  ?"  I  asked  curiously.  Bur- 
ton smiled  his  cheerful  smile. 

"It's  a  beautiful  case,  all  around,"  he  said,  as  he  got 
kis  hat  "I  haven't  had  any  Sunday  dinner  yet,  and 


158    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

it's  five  o'clock.      Oh — the  cyanide?      Clarkson,  the 

cashier  of  the  bank  Fleming  ruined,  took  a  bite  off 

that  corner  right  there,  this  morning." 
"Clarkson !"  I  exclaimed.     "How  is  he?" 
"God  only  knows,"  said  Burton  gravely,  from  which 

I  took  it  Clarkson  was  dead. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

SIZZLING  METAL 

BURTON  listened  while  he  ate,  and  his  cheerful 
comments  were  welcome  enough  after  the  depres- 
sion of  the  last  few  days.  I  told  him,  after  some  hes- 
itation, the  whole  thing,  beginning  with  the  Maitland 
pearls  and  ending  with  my  drop  down  the  dumb-waiter. 
I  knew  I  was  absolutely  safe  in  doing  so:  there  is  no 
person  to  whom  I  would  rather  tell  a  secret  than  a 
newspaper  man.  He  will  go  out  of  his  way  to  keep  it : 
he  will  lock  it  in  the  depths  of  his  bosom,  and  keep  it 
until  seventy  times  seven.  Also,  you  may  threaten 
the  rack  or  offer  a  larger  salary,  the  seal  does  not  come 
off  his  lips  until  the  word  is  given.  If  then  he  makes  a 
scarehead  of  it,  and  gets  in  three  columns  of  space 
and  as  many  photographs,  it  is  his  just  reward. 

So — I  told  Burton  everything,  and  he  ate  enough 
beefsteak  for  two  men,  and  missed  not  a  word  I  said. 

"The  money  Wardrop  had  in  the  grip — that's  easy 
enough  explained,"  he  said.  "Fleming  used  the 
Borough  Bank  to  deposit  state  funds  in.  He  must 
have  known  it  was  rotten:  he  and  Clarkson  were  as 
thick  as  thieves.  According  to  a  time-honored  cus- 
tom in  our  land  of  the  brave  and  home  of  the  free, 

159 


160    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

a  state  treasurer  who  is  crooked  can,  in  such  a  case, 
draw  on  such  a  bank  without  security,  on  his  personal 
note,  which  is  usually  worth  its  value  by  the  pound 
as  old  paper." 

"And  Fleming  did  that?" 

"He  did.  Then  things  got  bad  at  the  Borough  Bank. 
Fleming  had  had  to  divide  with  Schwartz  and  the  Lord 
only  knows  who  all,  but  it  was  Fleming  who  had  to 
put  in  the  money  to  avert  a  crash — the  word  crash 
being  synonymous  with  scandal  in.  this  case.  He 
scrapes  together  a  paltry  hundred  thousand,  which 
Wardrop  gets  at  the  capital,  and  brings  on.  Wardrop 
is  robbed,  or  says  he  is :  the  bank  collapses  and  Clark- 
son,  driven  to  the  wall,  kills  himself,  just  after  Flem- 
ing is  murdered.  What  does  that  sound  like?" 

"Like  Clarkson!"  I  exclaimed.  "And  Clarkson 
knew  Fleming  was  hiding  at  the  White  Cat !" 

"Now,  then,  take  the  other  theory,"  he  said,  push- 
ing aside  his  cup.  "Wardrop  goes  in  to  Fleming  with 
a  story  that  he  has  been  robbed:  Fleming  gets  crazy 
and  attacks  him.  All  that  is  in  the  morning — Friday. 
Now,  then — Wardrop  goes  back  there  that  night. 
Within  twenty  minutes  after  he  enters  the  club  he 
rushes  out,  and  when  Hunter  follows  him,  he  says 
he  is  looking  for  a  doctor,  to  get  cocaine  for  a  gentle- 
man up-stairs.  He  is  white  and  trembling.  They  go 
back  together,  and  find  you  there,  and  Fleming  dead. 
Wardrop  tells  two  stories :  first  he  says  Fleming  com- 
mitted suicide  just  before  he  left.  Then  he  changes  it 
and  says  he  was  dead  when  he  arrived  there.  He  pro- 


SIZZLING  METAL, 161 

duces  the  weapon  with  which  Fleming  is  supposed  to 
have  killed  himself,  and  which,  by  the  way,  Miss  Flem- 
ing identified  yesterday  as  her  father's.  But  there 
are  two  discrepancies.  Wardrop  practically  admitted 
that  he  had  taken  that  revolver  from  Fleming,  not 
that  night,  but  the  morning  before,  during  the  quarrel." 

"And  the  other  discrepancy?" 

"The  bullet.  Nobody  ever  fired  a  thirty-two  bullet 
out  of  a  thirty-eight  caliber  revolver — unless  he  was 
trying  to  shoot  a  double-compound  curve.  Now,  then, 
who  does  it  look  like?" 

"Like  Wardrop,"  I  confessed.  "By  Jove,  they 
didn't  both  do  it." 

"And  he  didn't  do  it  himself  for  two  good  reasons : 
he  had  no  revolver  that  night,  and  there  were  no  pow- 
der marks." 

"And  the  eleven  twenty-two,  and  Miss  Maitland's 
disappearance  ?" 

He  looked  at  me  with  his  quizzical  smile. 

"I'll  have  to  have  another  steak,  if  I'm  to  settle 
that,"  he  said.  "I  can  only  solve  one  murder  on  one 
steak.  But  disappearances  are  my  specialty;  perhaps, 
if  I  have  a  piece  o-f  pie  and  some  cheese — " 

But  I  got  him  away  at  last,  and  we  walked  together 
down  the  street. 

"I  can't  quite  see  the  old  lady  in  it,"  he  confessed. 
"She  hadn't  any  grudge  against  Fleming,  had  she? 
Wouldn't  be  likely  to  forget  herself  temporarily  and 
kill  him?" 

"Good  Lord!"  I  said.     "Why,  she's  sixty-five,  and 


as  timid  and  gentle  a  little  old  lady  as  ever  lived." 

"Curls?"  he  asked,  turning  his  bright  blue  eyes  on 
me. 

"Yes,"  I  admitted. 

"Wouldn't  be  likely  to  have  eloped  with  the  min- 
ister, or  advertised  for  a  husband,  or  anything  like 
that?" 

"You  would  have  to  know  her  to  understand,"  I 
said  resignedly.  "But  she  didn't  do  any  of  those 
things,  and  she  didn't  run  off  to  join  a  theatrical  troupe. 
Burton,  who  do  you  think  was  in  the  Fleming  house 
last  night?" 

"Light foot,"  he  said  succinctly. 

He  stopped  under  a  street  lamp  and  looked  at  his 
watch. 

"I  believe  I'll  run  over  to  the  capital  to-night,"  he 
said.  "While  I'm  gone — I'll  be  back  to-morrow  night 
or  the  next  morning — I  wish  you  would  do  two  things. 
Find  Rosie  O'Grady,  or  whatever  her  name  is,  and 
locate  Carter.  That's  probably  not  his  name,  but  it 
will  answer  for  a  while.  Then  get  your  friend  Hun- 
ter to  keep  him  in  sight  for  a  while,  until  I  come  back 
anyhow.  I'm  beginning  to  enjoy  this;  it's  more  fun 
than  a  picture  puzzle.  We're  going  to  make  the  po- 
lice department  look  like  a  kindergarten  playing  jack- 
straws." 

"And  the  second  thing  I  am  to  do?" 

"Go  to  Bellwood  and  find  out  a  few  things.  It's 
all  well  enough  to  say  the  old  lady  was  a  meek  and 
timid  person,  but  if  you  want  to  know  her  peculiari- 


SIZZLING  METAL 163 

ties,  go  to  her  neighbors.  When  people  leave  the 
beaten  path,  the  neighbors  always  know  it  before  the 
families." 

He  stopped  before  a  drug-store. 

"I'll  have  to  pack  for  my  little  jaunt,"  he  said,  and 
purchased  a  tooth-brush,  which  proved  to  be  the  extent 
of  his  preparations.  We  separated  at  the  station,  Bur- 
ton to  take  his  red  hair  and  his  tooth-brush  to  Platts- 
burg,  I  to  take  a  taxicab,  and  armed  with  a  page  torn 
from  the  classified  directory  to  inquire  at  as  many  of 
the  twelve  Anderson's  drug-stores  as  might  be  neces- 
sary to  locate  Delia's  gentleman  friend,  "the  clerk," 
through  him  Delia,  and  through  Delia,  the  mysterious 
Carter,  "who  was  not  really  a  butler." 

It  occurred  to  me  somewhat  tardily,  that  I  knew 
nothing  of  Delia  but  her  given  name.  A  telephone 
talk  with  Margery  was  of  little  assistance:  Delia  had 
been  a- new  maid,  and  if  she  had  heard  her  other  name, 
she  had  forgotten  it. 

I  had  checked  off  eight  of  the  Andersons  on  my  list, 
without  result,  and  the  taximeter  showed  something 
over  nineteen  dollars,  when  the  driver  drew  up  at  the 
curb. 

"Gentleman  in  the  other  cab  is  hailing  you,  sir,"  he 
said  over  his  shoulder. 

"The  other  cab?" 

"The  one  that  has  been  following  us." 

I  opened  the  door  and  glanced  behind.  A  duplicate 
of  my  cab  stood  perhaps  fifty  feet  behind,  and  from  it  a 
familiar  figure  was  slowly  emerging,  carrying  on  a 


164     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

high-pitched  argument  with  the  chauffeur.  The  figure 
stopped  to  read  the  taximeter,  shook  his  fist  at  the 
chauffeur,  and  approached  me,  muttering  audibly.  It 
was  Davidson. 

"That  liar  and  thief  back  there  has  got  me  rung  up 
for  nineteen  dollars,"  he  said,  ignoring  my  amazement. 
"Nineteen  dollars  and  forty  cents!  He  must  have 
the  thing  counting  the  revolutions  of  all  four  wheels !" 

He  walked  around  and  surveyed  my  expense  account, 
at  the  driver's  elbow.  Then  he  hit  the  meter  a  smart 
slap,  but  the  figures  did  not  change. 

"Nineteen  dollars!"  he  repeated  dazed.  "Nineteen 
dollars  and — look  here,"  he  called  to  his  driver,  who 
had  brought  the  cab  close,  "it's  only  thirty  cents  here. 
Your  clock's  ten  cents  fast." 

"But  how—"  I  began. 

"You  back  up  to  nineteen  dollars  and  thirty  cents," 
he  persisted,  ignoring  me.  "If  you'll  back  up  to  twelve 
dollars,  I'll  pay  it.  That's  all  I've  got."  Then  he 
turned  on  me  irritably.  "Good  heavens,  man,"  he  ex- 
claimed, "do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you've  been  to  eight 
drug-stores  this  Sunday  evening  and  spent  nineteen 
dollars  and  thirty  cents,  and  haven't  got  a  drink  yet?" 

"Do  you  think  I'm  after  a  drink?"  I  asked  him. 
"Now  look  here,  Davidson,  I  rather  think  you  know 
what  I  am  after.  If  you  don't,  it  doesn't  matter. 
But  since  you  are  coming  along  anyhow,  pay  your 
man  off  and  come  with  me.  I  don't  like  to  be  fol- 
lowed." 

He  agreed  without  hesitation,  borrowed  eight  dol- 


SIZZLING  METAL 165 

Jars  from  me  to  augment  his  twelve  and  crawled  in 
with  me. 

"The  next  address  on  the  list  is  the  right  one,"  he 
said,  as  the  man  waited  for  directions.  "I  did  the 
same  round  yesterday,  but  not  being  a  plutocrat,  I 
used  the  street-cars  and  my  legs.  And  because  you're 
a  decent  fellow  and  don't  have  to  be  chloroformed  to 
have  an  idea  injected,  I'm  going  to  tell  you  something. 
There  were  eleven  roundsmen  as  well  as  the  sergeant 
who  heard  me  read  the  note  I  found  at  the  Fleming 
house  that  night.  You  may  have  counted  them 
through  the  window.  A  dozen  plain-clothes  men  read 
it  before  morning.  When  the  news  of  Mr.  Fleming's 
mur — death  came  out,  I  thought  this  fellow  Carter 
might  know  something,  and  I  trailed  Delia  through 
this  Mamie  Brennan.  When  I  got  there  I  found  Tom 
Brannigan  and  four  other  detectives  sitting  in  the  par- 
lor, and  Miss  Delia,  in  a  blue  silk  waist,  making  eyes 
at  every  mother's  son  of  them." 

I  laughed  in  spite  of  my  disappointment.  David- 
son leaned  forward  and  closed  the  window  at  the 
driver's  back.  Then  he  squared  around  and  faced  me. 

"Understand  me,  Mr.  Knox,"  he  said,  "Mr.  Flem- 
ing killed  himself.  You  and  I  are  agreed  on  that 
Even  if  you  aren't  just  convinced  of  it  I'm  telling  you, 
and — better  let  it  drop,  sir."  Under  his  quiet  manner 
I  felt  a  threat :  it  served  to  rouse  me. 

"I'll  let  it  drop  when  I'm  through  with  it,"  I  as- 
serted, and  got  out  my  list  of  addresses. 

"You'll  let  it  drop  because  it's  too  hot  to  hold,"  he  re- 


166    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

torted,  with  the  suspicion  of  a  smile.  "If  you  are 
determined  to  know  about  Carter,  I  can  tell  you  every- 
thing that  is  necessary." 

The  chauffeur  stopped  his  engine  with  an  exas- 
perated jerk  and  settled  down  in  his  seat,  every  line 
of  his  back  bristling  with  irritation. 

"I  prefer  learning  from  Carter  himself." 

He  leaned  back  in  his  seat  and  produced  an  apple 
from  the  pocket  of  his  coat. 

"You'll  have  to  travel  some  to  do  it,  son,"  he  said. 
''Carter  left  for  parts  unknown  last  night,  taking  with 
him  enough  money  to  keep  him  in  comfort  for  some 
little  time." 

"Until  all  this  blows  over,"  I  said  bitterly. 

"The  trip  was  for  the  benefit  of  his  health.  He  has 
been  suffering — and  is  still  suffering,  from  a  curious 
lapse  of  memory."  Davidson  smiled  at  me  engag- 
ingly. "He  has  entirely  forgotten  everything  that  oc- 
curred from  the  time  he  entered  Mr.  Fleming's  employ- 
ment, until  that  gentleman  left  home.  I  doubt  if  he 
will  ever  recover." 

With  Carter  gone,  his  retreat  covered  by  the  police, 
supplied  with  funds  from  some  problematical  source, 
further  search  for  him  was  worse  than  useless.  In 
fact,  Davidson  strongly  intimated  that  it  might 
)be  dangerous  and  would  be  certainly  unpleasant. 
I  yielded  ungraciously  and  ordered  the  cab  to  take  me 
home.  But  on  the  way  I  cursed  my  folly  for  not  hav- 
ing followed  this  obvious  clue  earlier,  and  I  wondered 
what  this  thin£  could  be  that  Carter  knew,  that  was  at 


SIZZLING  METAL 167 

least  surmised  by  various  headquarters  men,  and  yet 
was  so  carefully  hidden  from  the  world  at  large. 

The  party  newspapers  had  come  out  that  day  with 
a  signed  statement  from  Mr.  Fleming's  physician  in 
Plattsburg  that  he  had  been  in  ill  health  and  inclined 
to  melancholia  for  some  time.  The  air  was  thick  with 
rumors  of  differences  with  his  party:  the  dust  cloud 
covered  everything;  pretty  soon  it  would  settle  and 
hide  the  tracks  of  those  who  had  hurried  to  cover 
under  its  protection. 

Davidson  left  me  at  a  corner  down-town.  He 
turned  to  give  me  a  parting  admonition. 

"There's  an  old  axiom  in  the  mills  around  here, 
'never  sit  down  on  a  piece  of  metal  until  you  spit  on 
it.'  If  it  sizzles,  don't  sit."  He  grinned.  "Your 
best  position  just  now,  young  man,  is  standing,  with 
your  hands  over  your  head.  Confidentially,  there  ain't 
anything  within  expectorating  distance  just  now  that 
ain't  pretty  well  het  up." 

He  left  me  with  that,  and  I  did  not  see  him  again 
until  the  night  at  the  White  Cat,  when  he  helped  put 
me  through  the  transom.  Recently,  however,  I  have 
met  him  several  times.  He  invariably  mentions  the 
eight  dollars  and  his  intention  of  repaying  it.  Un- 
fortunately, the  desire  and  the  ability  have  not  yet 
happened  to  coincide. 

I  took  the  evening  train  to  Bellwood,  and  got  there 
shortly  after  eight,  in  the  midst  of  the  Sunday  even- 
ing calm,  and  the  calm  of  a  place  like  Bellwood  is  the 
peace  of  death  without  the  hope  of  resurrection. 


168    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

I  walked  slowly  up  the  main  street,  which  was  lined 
with  residences ;  the  town  relegated  its  few  shops  to  less 
desirable  neighborhoods.  My  first  intention  had  been 
to  see  the  Episcopal  minister,  but  the  rectory  was  dark, 
and  a  burst  of  organ  music  from  the  church  near  re- 
minded me  again  of  the  Sunday  evening  services. 

Promiscuous  inquiry  was  not  advisable.  So  far, 
Miss  Jane's  disappearance  was  known  to  very  few, 
and  Hunter  had  advised  caution.  I  wandered  up  the 
street  and  turned  at  random  to  the  right;  a  few 
doors  ahead  a  newish  red  brick  building  proclaimed 
itself  the  post-office,  and  gave  the  only  sign  of  life  in 
the  neighborhood.  It  occurred  to  me  that  here  inside 
was  the  one  individual  who,  theoretically  at  least,  in  a 
small  place  always  knows  the  idiosyncrasies  of  its 
people. 

The  door  was  partly  open,  for  the  spring  night 
was  sultry.  The  postmaster  proved  to  be  a  one-armed 
veteran  of  the  Civil  War,  and  he  was  sorting  rapidly 
the  contents  of  a  mail-bag,  emptied  on  the  counter. 

"No  delivery  to-night,"  he  said  shortly.  "Sunday 
delivery,  two  to  three." 

"I  suppose,  then,  I  couldn't  get  a  dollar's  worth  of 
stamps,"  I  regretted. 

He  looked  up  over  his  glasses. 

"We  don't  sell  stamps  on  Sunday  nights,"  he  ex- 
plained, more  politely.  "But  if  you're  in  a  hurry  for 
them—" 

"I  am,"  I  lied.     And  after  he  had  got  them  out, 


SIZZLING  METAL  169 

counting  them  with  a  wrinkled  finger,  and  tearing 
them  off  the  sheet  with  the  deliberation  of  age,  I 
opened  a  general  conversation. 

"I  suppose  you  do  a  good  bit  of  business  here?" 
I  asked.  "It  seems  like  a  thriving  place." 

"Not  so  bad ;  big  mail  here  sometimes.  First  of  the 
quarter,  when  bills  are  coming  round,  we  have  a  rush, 
and  holidays  and  Easter  we've  got  to  hire  an  express 
wagon." 

It  was  when  I  asked  him  about  his  empty  sleeve, 
however,  and  he  had  told  me  that  he  lost  his  arm  at 
Chancellorsville,  that  we  became  really  friendly. 
When  he  said  he  had  been  a  corporal  in  General  Mait- 
land's  command,  my  path  was  one  of  ease. 

"The  Maitland  ladies !  I  should  say  I  do,"  he  said 
warmly.  "I've  been  fighting  with  Letitia  Maitland 
as  long  as  I  can  remember.  That  woman  will  scrap 
with  the  angel  Gabriel  at  the  resurrection,  if  he  wakes 
her  up  before  she's  had  her  sleep  out." 

"Miss  Jane  is  not  that  sort,  is  she?" 

"Miss  Jane?  She's  an  angel — she  is  that.  She 
could  have  been  married  a  dozen  times  when  she  was 
a  girl,  but  Letitia  wouldn't  have  it.  I  was  after  her 
myself,  forty-five  years  ago.  This  was  the  Maitland 
farm  in  those  days,  and  my  father  kept  a  country 
store  down  where  the  railroad  station  is  now." 

"I  suppose  from  that  the  Maitland  ladies  are 
wealthy." 

"Wealthy!     They  don't  know  what  they're  worth 


170    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

— not  that  it  matters  a  mite  to  Jane  Maitland.  She 
hasn't  called  her  soul  her  own  for  so  long  that  I  guess 
the  good  Lord  won't  hold  her  responsible  for  it." 

All  of  which  was  entertaining,  but  it  was  much  like 
an  old-fashioned  see-saw;  it  kept  going,  but  it  didn't 
make  much  progress.  But  now  at  last  we  took  a  step 
ahead. 

"It's  a  shameful  thing,"  the  old  man  pursued,  "that 
a  woman  as  old  as  Jane  should  have  to  get  her  letters 
surreptitiously.  For  more  than  a  year  now  she's  been 
coming  here  twice  a  week  for  her  mail,  and  I've  been 
keeping  it  for  her.  Rain  or  shine,  Mondays  and  Thurs- 
days, she's  been  coming,  and  a  sight  of  letters  she's 
been  getting,  too." 

"Did  she  come  last  Thursday?"  I  asked  over- 
eagerly.  The  postmaster,  all  at  once,  regarded  me 
with  suspicion. 

"I  don't  know  whether  she  did  or  not,"  he  said 
coldly,  and  my  further  attempts  to  beguile  him  into 
conversation  failed.  I  pocketed  my  stamps,  and  by 
that  time  his  resentment  at  my  curiosity  was  fading. 
He  followed  me  to  the  door,  and  lowered  his  voice 
cautiously. 

"Any  news  of  the  old  lady?"  he  asked.  "It  ain't 
generally  known  around  here  that  she's  missing,  but 
Heppie,  the  cook  there,  is  a  relation  of  my  wife's." 

"We  have  no  news,"  I  replied,  "and  don't  let  it  get 
around,  will  you?" 

He  promised  gravely. 

"I  was  tellin'  the  missus  the  other  day,"  he  said. 


SIZZLING  METAL 171 

"that  there  is  an  old  walled-up  cellar  under  the  Mait- 
land  place.  Have  you  looked  there?"  He  was  disap- 
pointed when  I  said  we  had,  and  I  was  about  to  go 
when  he  called  me  back. 

"Miss  Jane  didn't  get  her  mail  on  Thursday,  but  on 
Friday  that  niece  of  hers  came  for  it — two  letters,  one 
from  the  city  and  one  from  New  York." 

"Thanks,"  I  returned,  and  went  out  into  the  quiet 
street. 

I  walked  past  the  Maitland  place,  but  the  windows 
were  dark  and  the  house  closed.  Haphazard  inquiry 
being  out  of  the  question,  I  took  the  ten  o'clock  train 
back  to  the  city.  I  had  learned  little  enough,  and  that 
little  I  was  at  a  loss  to  know  how  to  use.  For  why 
had  Margery  gone  for  Miss  Jane's  mail  after  the  little 
lady  was  missing?  And  why  did  Miss  Jane  carry  on  a 
clandestine  correspondence  ? 

The  family  had  retired  when  I  got  home  except 
Fred,  who  called  from  his  study  to  ask  for  a  rhyme 
for  mosque.  I  could  not  think  of  one  and  suggested 
that  he  change  the  word  to  "temple."  At  two  o'clock 
he  banged  on  my  door  in  a  temper,  said  he  had  changed 
the  rhythm  to  fit,  and  now  couldn't  find  a  rhyme  for 
"temple !"  I  suggested  "dimple"  drowsily,  whereat  he 
kicked  the  panel  of  the  door  and  went  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A   WALK   IN   THE   PARK 

THE  funeral  occurred  on  Monday.  It  was  an 
ostentatious  affair,  with  a  long  list  of  honorary 
pall-bearers,  a  picked  corps  of  city  firemen  in  uniform 
ranged  around  the  casket,  and  enough  money  wasted 
in  floral  pillows  and  sheaves  of  wheat  tied  with  purple 
ribbon,  to  have  given  all  the  hungry  children  in  town  a 
square  meal. 

Amid  all  this  state  Margery  moved,  stricken  and 
isolated.  She  went  to  the  cemetery  with  Edith,  Miss 
Letitia  having  sent  a  message  that,  having  never  broken 
her  neck  to  see  the  man  living,  she  wasn't  going  to  do 
it  to  see  him  dead.  The  music  was  very  fine,  and  the 
eulogy  spoke  of  this  patriot  who  had  served  his  country 
so  long  and  so  well.  "Following  the  flag,"  Fred  com- 
mented under  his  breath,  "as  long  as  there  was  an  ap- 
propriation attached  to  it." 

And  when  it  was  all  over,  we  went  back  to  Fred's 
until  the  Fleming  house  could  be  put  into  order  again. 
It  was  the  best  place  in  the  world  for  Margery,  for, 
with  the  children  demanding  her  attention  and  ap- 
plause every  minute,  she  had  no  time  to  be  blue. 

Mrs.   Butler  arrived  that  day,  which  made  Fred 

172 


A  WALK  IN  THE  PARK         173 

suspicious  that  Edith's  plan  to  bring  her,  far  antedated 
his  consent.  But  she  was  there  when  we  got  home 
from  the  funeral,  and  after  one  glimpse  at  her  thin 
face  and  hollow  eyes,  I  begged  Edith  to  keep  her  away 
from  Margery,  for  that  day  at  least. 

Fortunately,  Mrs.  Butler  was  exhausted  by  her  jour- 
ney, and  retired  to  her  room  almost  immediately.  I 
watched  her  slender  figure  go-  up  the  stairs,  and,  with 
her  black  trailing  gown  and  colorless  face,  she  was  an 
embodiment  of  all  that  is  lonely  and  helpless.  Fred 
closed  the  door  behind  her  and  stood  looking  at  Edith 
and  me. 

"I  tell  you,  honey,"  he  declared,  "that  brought  into 
a  cheerful  home  is  sufficient  cause  for  divorce.  Isn't 
it,  Jack?" 

"She  is  ill,"  Edith  maintained  valiantly.  "She  i» 
my  cousin,  too,  which  gives  her  some  claim  on  me, 
and  my  guest,  which  gives  her  more." 

"Lady-love,"  Fred  said  solemnly,  "if  you  do  not 
give  me  the  key  to  the  cellarette,  I  shall  have  a  chill. 
And  let  me  beg  this  of  you :  if  I  ever  get  tired  of  this 
life,  and  shuffle  off  my  mortality  in  a  lumber  yard, 
or  a  political  club,  and  you  go  around  like  that,  I  shall 
haunt  you.  I  swear  it." 

"Shuffle  off,"  I  dared  him.  "I  will  see  that  Edith 
is  cheerful  and  happy." 

From  somewhere  above,  there  came  a  sudden  crash, 
followed  by  the  announcement,  made  by  a  scared 
house-maid,  that  Mrs.  Butler  had  fainted.  Fred 
miffed  as  Edith  scurried  up-stairs. 


"Hipped,"  he  said  shortly.  "For  two  cents  I'd  go 
up  and  give  her  a  good  whiff  of  ammonia — not  this 
aromatic  stuff,  but  the  genuine  article.  That  would 
make  her  sit  up  and  take  notice.  Upon  my  word,  I 
can't  think  what  possessed  Edith.;  these  spineless,  soft- 
spoken,  timid  women  are  leeches  on  one's  sympathies." 

But  Mrs.  Butler  was  really  ill,  and  Margery  insisted 
on  looking  after  her.  It  was  an  odd  coincidence,  the 
widow  of  one  state  treasurer  and  the  orphaned  daughter 
of  his  successor;  both  men  had  died  violent  deaths,  in 
each  case  when  a  boiling  under  the  political  lid  had 
threatened  to  blow  it  off. 

The  boys  were  allowed  to  have  their  dinner  with 
the  family  that  evening,  in  honor  of  Mrs.  Butler's  ar- 
rival, and  it  was  a  riotous  meal.  Margery  got  back  a 
little  of  her  cdor.  As  I  sat  across  from  her,  and 
watched  her  expressions  change,  from  sadness  to  resig- 
nation, and  even  gradually  to  amusement  at  the  boys' 
antics,  I  wondered  just  how  much  she  knew,  or  sus- 
pected, that  she  refused  to  tell  me. 

I  remember  a  woman — a  client  of  mine — who  said 
that  whenever  she  sat  near  a  railroad  track  and 
watched  an  engine  thundering  toward  her,  she  tor- 
tured herself  by  picturing  a  child  on  the  track,  and 
wondering  whether,  under  such  circumstances,  she 
would  risk  her  life  to  save  the  child. 

I  felt  a  good  bit  that  way;  I  was  firmly  embarked 
on  the  case  now,  and  I  tortured  myself  with  one  idea. 
Suppose  I  should  find  Wardrop  guilty,  and  I  should 
find  extenuating  circumstances — what  would  I  do? 


A  WALK  IN  THE  PARK         175 

Publish  the  truth,  see  him  hanged  or  imprisoned,  and 
break  Margery's  heart?  Or  keep  back  the  truth,  let 
her  marry  him,  and  try  to  forget  that  I  had  had  a  hand 
in  the  whole  wretched  business? 

After  all,  I  decided  to  try  to  stop  my  imaginary 
train.  Prove  Wardrop  innocent,  I  reasoned  with 
myself,  get  to  the  bottom  of  this  thing,  and  then — it 
would  be  man  and  man.  A  fair  field  and  no  favor. 
I  suppose  my  proper  attitude,  romantically  taken,  was 
to  consider  Margery's  engagement  ring  an  indissoluble 
barrier.  But  this  was  not  romance;  I  was  fighting 
for  my  life  happiness,  and  as  to  the  ring — well,  I  am 
of  the  opinion  that  if  a  man  really  loves  a  woman, 
and  thinks  he  can  make  her  happy,  he  will  tell  her  so  if 
she  is  strung  with  engagement  rings  to  the  ends  of  her 
fingers.  Dangerous  doctrine  ?  Well,  this  is  not  prop- 
aganda. 

Tuesday  found  us  all  more  normal.  Mrs.  Butler 
had  slept  some,  and  very  commendably  allowed  her- 
self to  be  tea'd  and  toasted  in  bed.  The  boys  were 
started  to  kindergarten,  after  ten  minutes  of  fren- 
zied cap-hunting.  Margery  went  with  me  along  the 
hall  when  I  started  for  the  office. 

"You  have  not  learned  anything?"  she  asked  cau- 
tiously, glancing  back  to  Edith,  at  the  telephone  calling 
the  grocer  frantically  for  the  Monday  morning  supply 
of  soap  and  starch. 

"Not  much,"  I  evaded.  "Nothing  definite,  any- 
how. Margery,  you  are  not  going  back  to  the  Mon- 
mouth  Avenue  house  again,  are  you?" 


176    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

"Not  just  yet;  I  don't  think  I  could.  I  suppose, 
later,  it  will  have  to  be  sold,  but  not  at  once.  I  shall 
go  to  Aunt  Letitia's  first." 

"Very  well,"  I  said.  "Then  you  are  going  to  take 
a  walk  with  me  this  afternoon  in  the  park.  I  won't 
take  no ;  you  need  the  exercise,  and  I  need — to  talk  to 
you,"  I  finished  lamely. 

When  she  had  agreed  I  went  to  the  office.  It  was 
not  much  after  nine,  but,  to  my  surprise,  Burton  waa 
already  there.  He  had  struck  up  an  acquaintance  with 
Miss  Grant,  the  stenographer,  and  that  usually  frigid 
person  had  melted  under  the  warmth  of  his  red  hair 
and  his  smile.  She  was  telling  him  about  her  sister's 
baby  having  the  whooping-cough,  when  I  went  in. 

"I  wish  I  had  studied  law,"  he  threw  at  me. 
"  'What  shall  it  profit  a  man  to  become  a  lawyer  and 
lose  his  own  soul?'  as  the  psalmist  says.  I  like  this 
ten-to-four  business." 

When  we  had  gone  into  the  inner  office,  and  shut 
out  Miss  Grant  and  the  whooping-cough,  he  was  seri- 
ous instantly. 

"Well,"  he  said,  sitting  on  the  radiator  and  dangling 
his  foot,  "I  guess  we've  got  Wardrop  for  theft,  any- 
how." 

"Theft?"  I  inquired. 

"Well,  larceny,  if  you  prefer  legal  terms.  I  found 
where  he  sold  the  pearls — in  Plattsburg,  to  a  whole- 
sale jeweler  named,  suggestively,  Cashdollar." 

"Then,"  I  said  conclusively,  "if  he  took  the  pearls 


A  WALK  IN  THE  PARK         177 

and  sold  them,  as  sure  as  I  sit  here,  he  took  the  money 
out  of  that  Russia  leather  bag." 

Burton  swung  his  foot  rhythmically  against  the 
pipes. 

"I'm  not  so  darned  sure  of  it,"  he  said  calmly. 

If  he  had  any  reason,  he  refused  to  give  it.  I  told 
him,  in  my  turn,  of  Carter's  escape,  aided  by  the  po- 
lice, and  he  smiled.  "For  a  suicide  it's  causing  a  lot 
of  excitement,"  he  remarked.  When  I  told  him  the 
little  incident  of  the  post-office,  he  was  much  interested. 

"The  old  lady's  in  it,  somehow,"  he  maintained. 
"She  may  have  been  lending  Fleming  money,  for  one 
thing.  How  do  you  know  it  wasn't  her  hundred 
thousand  that  was  stolen?" 

"I  don't  think  she  ever  had  the  uncontrolled  disposal 
of  a  dollar  in  her  life." 

"There's  only  one  thing  to  do,"  Burton  said  finally, 
"and  that  is,  find  Miss  Jane.  If  she's  alive,  she  can 
tell  something.  I'll  stake  my  fountain  pen  on  that — 
and  it's  my  dearest  possession  on  earth,  next  to  my 
mother.  If  Miss  Jane  is  dead — well,  somebody  killed 
her,  and  it's  time  it  was  being  found  out." 

"It's  easy  enough  to  say  find  her." 

"It's  easy  enough  to  find  her,"  he  exploded.  "Make 
a  noise  about  it;  send  up  rockets.  Put  a  half-column 
ad  in  every  paper  in  town,  or — better  still — give  the 
story  to  the  reporters  and  let  them  find  her  for  you. 
I'd  do  it,  if  I  wasn't  tied  up  with  this  Fleming  case. 
Describe  her,  how  she  walked,  what  she  liked  to  eat,. 


178    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

what  she  wore — in  this  case  what  she  didn't  wear. 
Lord,  I  wish  I  had  that  assignment!  In  forty-eight 
hours  she  will  have  been  seen  in  a  hundred  different 
places,  and  one  of  them  will  be  right.  It  will  be  a 
question  of  selection — that  is,  if  she  is  alive." 

In  spite  of  his  airy  tone,  I  knew  he  was  serious, 
and  I  felt  he  was  right.  The  publicity  part  of  it  I 
left  to  him,  and  I  sent  a  special  delivery  that  morn- 
ing to  Bellwood,  asking  Miss  Letitia  to  say  nothing 
and  to  refer  reporters  to  me.  I  had  already  been  be- 
sieged with  them,  since  my  connection  with  the  Flem- 
ing case,  and  a  few  more  made  no  difference. 

Burton  attended  to  the  matter  thoroughly.  The 
one  o'clock  edition  of  an  afternoon  paper  contained 
a  short  and  vivid  scarlet  account  of  Miss  Jane's  dis- 
appearance. The  evening  editions  were  full,  and  while 
vague  as  to  the  manner  of  her  leaving,  were  minute 
as  regarded  her  personal  appearance  and  character- 
istics. 

To  escape  the  threatened  inundation  of  the  morning 
paper  men,  I  left  the  office  early,  and  at  four  o'clock 
Margery  and  I  stepped  from  a  hill  car  into  the  park. 
She  had  been  wearing  a  short,  crepe-edged  veil,  but 
once  away  from  the  gaze  of  the  curious,  she  took  it 
off.  I  was  glad  to  see  she  had  lost  the  air  of  detach- 
ment she  had  worn  for  the  last  three  days. 

"Hold  your  shoulders  well  back,"  I  directed,  when 
we  had  found  an  isolated  path,  "and  take  long  breaths, 
breathing  in  while  I  count  ten." 

She  was  very  tractable — unusually  so,  I  imagined, 


A  WALK  IN  THE  PARK         179 

for  her.  We  swung  along  together  for  almost  a  half- 
hour,  hardly  talking.  I  was  content  merely  to  be  with 
her,  and  the  sheer  joy  of  the  exercise  after  her  en- 
forced confinement  kept  her  silent.  When  she  began 
to  flag  a  little  I  found  a  bench,  and  we  sat  down  to- 
gether. The  bench  had  been  lately  painted,  and  al- 
though it  seemed  dry  enough,  I  spread  my  handker- 
chief for  her  to  sit  on-.  Whereupon  she  called  me 
"Sir  Walter,"  and  at  the  familiar  jest  we  laughed  like 
a  pair  o*f  children. 

I  had  made  the  stipulation  that,  for  this  one  time, 
her  father's  death  and  her  other  troubles  should  be 
taboo,  and  we  adhered  to  it  religiously.  A  robin  in 
the  path  was  industriously  digging  out  a  worm.;  he 
had  tackled  a  long  one,  and  it  was  all  he  could  manage. 
He  took  the  available  end  in  his  beak  and  hopped  back 
with  the  expression  of  one  who  sets  his  jaws  and  de- 
termines that  this  which  should  be,  is  to  be.  The 
worm  stretched  into  a  pinkish  and  attenuated  line,  but 
it  neither  broke  nor  gave. 

"Horrid  thing!"  Margery  said.  "That  is  a  dis- 
graceful, heartless  exhibition." 

"The  robin  is  a  parent,"  I  reminded  her.  "It  is 
precisely  the  same  as  Fred,  who  twists,  jerks,  dis- 
torts and  attenuates  the  English  language  in  his  maga- 
zine work,  in  order  to  have  bread  and  ice-cream  and 
jelly  cake  for  his  two  blooming  youngsters." 

She  had  taken  off  her  gloves,  and  sat  with  her 
hands  loosely  clasped  in  her  lap. 

"I  wish  some  one  aepended  on  me,"  she  said  pen- 


180    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

sively.  "It's  a  terrible  thing  to  feel  that  it  doesn't 
matter  to  any  one — not  vitally,  anyhow — whether  one 
is  around  or  not.  To  have  all  my  responsibilities  taken, 
away  at  once,  and  just  to  drift  around,  like  this — oh, 
it's  dreadful." 

"You  were  going  to  be  good,"  I  reminded  her. 

"I  didn't  promise  to  be  cheerful,"  she  returned. 
"Besides  my  father,  there  was  only  one  person  in  the 
world  who  cared  about  me,  and  I  don't  know  where 
she  is.  Dear  Aunt  Jane!" 

The  sunlight  caught  the  ring  on  her  engagement 
finger,  and  she  flushed  suddenly  as  she  saw  me  look- 
ing at  it.  [We  sat  there  for  a  while  saying  nothing; 
the  long  May  afternoon  was  coming  to  a  close.  The 
paths  began  to  fill  with  long  lines  of  hurrying  home- 
seekers,  their  day  in  office  or  factory  at  an  end. 

Margery  got  up  at  last  and  buttoned  her  coat. 
Then  impulsively  she  held  out  her  hand  to  me. 

"You  have  been  more  than  kind  to  me,"  she  said 
hurriedly.  "You  have  taken  me  into  your  home — and 
helped  me  through  these  dreadful  days — and  I  will 
never  forget  it;  never." 

"I  am  not  virtuous,"  I  replied,  looking  down  at  her. 
"I  couldn't  help  it.  You  walked  into  my  life  when 
you  came  to  my  office — was  it  only  last  week?  The 
evil  days  are  coming,  I  suppose,  but  just  now  nothing 
matters  at  all,  save  that  you  are  you,  and  I  am  I." 

She  dropped  her  veil  quickly,  and  we  went  back  to 
the  car.  [The  prosaic  world  wrapped  us  around  again ; 


A  WALK  IN  THE  PARK         181 

there  was  a  heavy  odor  of  restaurant  coffee  in  the 
air;  peopie  bumped  and  jolted  past  us.  To  me  they 
were  only  shadows;  the  real  world  was  a  girl  in  black 
and  myself,  and  the  girl  wore  a  betrothal  ring  which 
was  not  mine. 


CHAPTER  XV 

FIND  THE  WOMAN 

S.  BUTLER  came  down  to  dinner  that  night. 
She  was  more  cheerful  than  I  had  yet  seen  her, 
and  she  had  changed  her  mournful  garments  to  some- 
thing a  trifle  less  depressing.  With  her  masses  of  fair 
hair  dressed  high,  and  her  face  slightly  animated,  I 
realized  what  I  had  not  done  before — that  she  was 
the  wreck  of  a  very  beautiful  woman.  Frail  as  she 
was,  almost  shrinkingly  timid  in  her  manner,  there 
were  times  when  she  drew  up  her  tall  figure  in  some- 
thing like  its  former  stateliness.  She  had  beautiful 
eyebrows,  nearly  black  and  perfectly  penciled;  they 
were  almost  incongruous  in  her  colorless  face. 

She  was  very  weak;  she  used  a  cane  when  she 
walked,  and  after  dinner,  in  the  library,  she  was  con- 
tent to  sit  impassive,  detached,  propped  with  cushions, 
while  Margery  read  to  the  boys  in  their  night  nursery 
and  Edith  embroidered. 

Fred  had  been  fussing  over  a  play  for  some  time, 
and  he  had  gone  to  read  it  to  some  manager  or  other. 
Edith  was  already  spending  the  royalties. 

"We  could  go  a  little  ways  out  of  town,"  she  was 
saying,  "and  we  could  have  an  automobile;  Margery 

183 


FIND  THE  WOMAN  183 

says  theirs  will  be  sold,  and  it  will  certainly  be  a  bar- 
gain.    Jack,  are  you  laughing  at  me?" 

"Certainly  not,"  I  replied  gravely.  "Dream  on, 
Edith.  Shall  we  train  the  boys  as  chauffeurs,  or  shall 
we  buy  in  the  Fleming  man,  also  cheap." 

"I  am  sure,"  Edith  said  aggrieved,  "that  it  costs 
more  for  horse  feed  this  minute  for  your  gray,  Jack, 
than  it  would  for  gasolene." 

"But  Lady  Gray  won't  eat  gasolene,"  I  protested. 
"She  doesn't  like  it." 

Edith  turned  her  back  on  me  and  sewed.  Near  me, 
Mrs.  Butler  had  languidly  taken  up  the  paper;  sud- 
denly she  dropped  it,  and  when  I  stooped  and  picked 
it  up  I  noticed  she  was  trembling. 

"Is  it  true?"  she  demanded.  "Is  Robert  Clarkson 
dead?" 

"Yes,"  I  assented.  "He  has  been  dead  since  Sun- 
day morning — a  suicide." 

Edith  had  risen  and  come  over  to  her.  But  Mrs. 
Butler  was  not  fainting. 

"I'm  glad,  glad,"  she  said.  Then  she  grew  weak 
and  semi-hysterical,  laughing  and  crying  in  the  same 
breath.  When  she  had  been  helped  up-stairs-,  for  in 
her  weakened  state  it  had  been  more  of  a  shock  than 
we  realized,  Margery  came  down  and  we  tried  to  for- 
get the  scene  we  had  just  gone  through. 

"I  am  glad  Fred  was  not  here,"  Edith  confided  to 
me.  "Ellen  is  a  lovely  woman,  and  as  kind  as  she  is 
mild;  but  in  one  of  her — attacks,  she  is  a  little  bit 
trying." 


184    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

It  was  strange  to  contrast  the  way  in  which  the 
two  women  took  their  similar  bereavements.  Mar- 
gery represented  the  best  type  of  normal  American 
womanhood;  Ellen  Butler  the  neurasthenic;  she  de- 
manded everything  by  her  very  helplessness  and  timid- 
ity. She  was  a  constant  drain  on  Edith's  ready  sym- 
pathy. That  night,  while  I  closed  the  house — Fred 
had  not  come  in — I  advised  her  to  let  Mrs.  Butler4  go 
back  to  her  sanatorium. 

At  twelve-thirty  I  was  still  down-stairs;  Fred  was 
out,  and  I  waited  for  him,  being  curious  to  know  the 
verdict  on  the  play.  The  bell  rang  a  few  minutes  be- 
fore one,  and  I  went  to  the  door ;  some  one  in  the  vesti- 
bule was  tapping  the  floor  impatiently  with  his  foot. 
When  I  opened  the  door,  I  was  surprised  to  find  that 
the  late  visitor  was  Wardrop. 

He  came  in  quietly,  and  I  had  a  chance  to  see  him 
well,  under  the  hall  light;  the  change  three  days  had 
made  was  shocking.  His  eyes  were  sunk  deep  in  his 
head,  his  reddened  lids  and  twitching  mouth  told  of 
little  sleep,  of  nerves  ready  to  snap.  He  was  untidy, 
too,  and  a  three  days'  beard  hardly  improved  him. 

"I'm  glad  it's  you,"  he  said,  by  way  of  greeting. 
"I  was  afraid  you'd  have  gone  to  bed." 

"It's  the  top  of  the  evening  yet,"  I  replied  per- 
functorily, as  I  led  the  way  into  the  library.  Once 
inside,  Wardrop  closed  the  door  and  looked  around 
him  like  an  animal  at  bay. 

"I  came  here,"  he  said  nervously,  looking  at  the 


FIND  THE  WOMAN  185 

windows,  "because  I  had  an  idea  you'd  keep  your 
head.  Mine's  gone;  I'm  either  crazy,  or  I'm  on  my 
way  there." 

"Sit  down,  man,"  I  pushed  a  chair  to  him.  "You 
don't  look  as  if  you  have  been  in  bed  for  a  couple  of 
nights." 

He  went  to  each  of  the  windows  and  examined  the 
closed  shutters  before  he  answered  me. 

"I  haven't.  You  wouldn't  go  to  bed  either,  if  you 
thought  you  would  never  wake  up." 

"Nonsense." 

"Well,  it's  true  enough.  Knox,  there  are  people 
following  me  wherever  I  go;  they  eat  where  I  eat;  if 
I  doze  in  my  chair  they  come  into  my  dreams!"  He 
stopped  there,  then  he  laughed  a  little  wildly.  "That 
last  isn't  sane,  but  it's  true.  There's  a  man  across  the 
street  now,  eating  an  apple  under  a  lamp-post." 

"Suppose  you  are  under  surveillance,"  I  said.  "It's 
annoying  to  have  a  detective  following  you  around, 
but  it's  hardly  serious.  The  police  say  now  that  Mr. 
Fleming  killed  himself;  that  was  your  own  conten- 
tion." 

He  leaned  forward  in  his  chair  and,  resting  his 
hands  on  his  knees-,  gazed  at  me  somberly. 

"Suppose  I  say  he  didn't  kill  himself?"  slowly. 
"Suppose  I  say  he  was  murdered?  Suppose — good 
God — suppose  I  kille'd  him  myself?" 

I  drew  back  in  stupefaction,  but  he  hurried  on. 

"For  the  last  two  days  I've  been  wondering — if  I 


186     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

did  it!  He  hadn't  any  weapon;  I  had  one,  his.  I 
hated  him  that  day;  I  had  tried  to  save  him,  and 
couldn't.  My  God,  Knox,  I  might  have  gone  off  my 
head  and  done  it — and  not  remember  it.  There  have 
been  cases  like  that." 

His  condition  was  pitiable.  I  looked  around  for 
some  whiskey,  but  the  best  I  could  do  was  a  little  port 
on  the  sideboard.  When  I  came  back  he  was  sitting 
with  bent  head,  his  forehead  on  his  palms. 

"I've  thought  it  all  out,"  he  said  painfully.  "My 
mother  had  spells  of  emotional  insanity.  Perhaps  I 
went  there,  without  knowing  it,  and  killed  him.  I  can 
see  him,  in  the  night,  when  I  daren't  sleep,  toppling 
over  on  to  that  table,  with  a  bullet  wound  in  his  head, 
and  I  am  in  the  room,  and  I  have  his  revolver  in  my 
pocket !" 

"You  give  me  your  word  you  have  no  conscious 
recollection  of  hearing  a  shot  fired." 

"My  word  before  Heaven,"  he  said  fervently.  "But 
I  tell  you,  Knox,  hp  had  no  weapon.  No  one  came 
out  of  that  room  as  I  went  in  and  yet  he  was  only  sway- 
ing forward,  as  if  I  had  shot  him  one  moment,  and 
caught  him  as  he  fell,  the  next.  I  was  dazed ;  I  don't 
remember  yet  what  I  told  the  police." 

The  expression  of  fear  in  his  eyes  was  terrible  to 
see.  A  gust  of  wind  shook  the  shutters,  and  he 
jumped  almost  out  of  his  chair. 

"You  will  have  to  be  careful,"  I  said.  "There  have 
been  cases  where  men  confessed  murders  they  never 
committed,  driven  by  Heaven  knows  what  method  of 


FIND  THE  WOMAN  187 

undermining  their  mental  resistance.  You  expose  your 
imagination  to  'third  degree'  torture  of  your  own  in- 
vention, and  in  two  days  more  you  will  be  able  to 
add  full  details  of  the  crime." 

"I  knew  you  would  think  me  crazy,"  he  put  in,  a 
little  less  somberly,  "but  just  try  it  once :  sit  in  a  room 
by  yourself  all  day  and  all  night,  with  detectives  watch- 
ing you ;  sit  there  and  puzzle  over  a  murder  of  a  man 
you  are  suspected  of  killing;  you  know  you  felt  like 
killing  him,  and  you  have  a  revolver,  and  he  is  shot. 
^Wouldn't  you  begin  to  think  as  I  do?" 

" Wardrop,"  I  asked,  trying  to  fix  his  wavering  eyes 
with  mine,  "do  you  own  a  thirty-two  caliber  revol- 
ver?" 

"Yes." 

I  was  startled  beyond  any  necessity,  under  the  cir- 
cumstances. Many  people  have  thirty-twos. 

"That  is,  I  had,"  he  corrected  himself.  "It  was 
in  the  leather  bag  that  was  stolen  at  Bellwood." 

"I  can  relieve  your  mind  of  one  thing,"  I  said. 
"If  your  revolver  was  stolen  with  the  leather  bag,  you 
had  nothing  to  do  with  the  murder.  Fleming  was 
shot  with  a  thirty-two."  He  looked  first  incredulous, 
then  relieved. 

"Now,  then,"  I  pursued,  "suppose  Mr.  Fleming  had 
an  enemy,  a  relentless  one  who  would  stoop  to  anything 
to  compass  his  ruin.  In  his  position  he  would  be  likely 
to  have  enemies.  This  person,  let  us  say,  knows  what 
you  carry  in  your  grip,  and  steals  it,  taking  away  the 
:funds  that  would  have  helped  to  keep  the  lid  on  Flem- 


188    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

ing's  mismanagement  for  a  time.  In  the  grip  is  your 
revolver;  would  you  know  it  again?" 

He  nodded  affirmatively. 

"This  person — this  enemy  finds  the  revolver,  pock- 
ets it  and  at  the  first  opportunity,  having  ruined  Flem- 
ing, proceeds  humanely  to  put  him  out  of  his  suffering. 
Is  it  far-fetched?'* 

"There  were  a  dozen — a  hundred — people  who 
would  have  been  glad  to  ruin  him."  His  gaze  wavered 
again  suddenly.  It  was  evident  that  I  had  renewed 
an  old  train  of  thought. 

"For  instance?"  I  suggested,  but  he  was  on  guard 
again. 

"You  forget  one  thing,  Knox,"  he  said,  after  a 
moment.  "There  was  nobody  else  who  could  have 
shot  him :  the  room  was  empty." 

"Nonsense,"  I  replied.  "Don't  forget  the  ware- 
house." 

"The  warehouse !" 

"There  is  no  doubt  in  my  mind  that  he  was  shot 
from  there.  He  was  facing  the  open  window,  sit- 
ting directly  under  the  light,  writing.  A  shot  fired 
through  a  broken  pane  of  one  of  the  warehouse  win- 
dows would  meet  every  requirement  of  the  case:  the 
empty  room,  the  absence  of  powder  marks — even  the 
fact  that  no  shot  was  heard.  There  was  a  report,  of 
course,  but  the  noise  in  the  club-house  and  the  thunder- 
storm outside  covered  it." 

"By  George!"  he  exclaimed.     "The  warehouse,  of 


FIND  THE  WOMAN  189 

course.  I  never  thought  of  it"  He  was  relieved, 
for  some  reason. 

"It's  a  question  now  of  how  many  people  knew  he 
was  at  the  club,  and  which  of  them  hated  him  enough 
%o  kill  him/' 

"Clarkson  knew  it,"  Wardrop  said,  "but  he  didn't 
do  it." 

"Why?" 

"Because  it  was  he  who  came  to  the  door  of  the 
room  while  the  detective  and  you  and  I  were  inside, 
and  called  Fleming." 

I  pulled  out  my  pocket-book  and  took  out  the  scrap 
of  paper  which  Margery  had  found  pinned  to  the  pil- 
low in  her  father's  bedroom.  "Do  you  know  what 
that  means?"  I  asked,  watching  Wardrop's  face. 
"That  was  found  in  Mr.  Fleming's  room  two  days 
after  he  left  home.  A  similar  scrap  was  found  in 
Miss  Jane  Maitland's  room  when  she  disappeared. 
\Vhen  Fleming  was  murdered,  he  was  writing  a  let- 
ter; he  said:  'The  figures  have  followed  me  here/ 
[When  we  know  what  those  figures  mean,  Wardrop, 
we  know  why  he  was  killed  and  who  did  it." 

He  shook  his  head  hopelessly. 

"I  do  not  know,"  he  said,  and  I  believed  him.  He 
had  got  up  and  taken  his  hat,  but  I  stopped  him  in- 
side the  door. 

"You  can  help  this  thing  in  two  ways,"  I  told  him. 
**I  am  going  to  give  you  something  to  do:  you  will 
have  less  time  to  be  morbid.  Find  out,  if  jou  can, 


190    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

all  about  Fleming's  private  life  in  the  last  dozen  years, 
especially  the  last  three.  See  if  there  are  any  women 
mixed  up  in  it,  and  try  to  find  out  something  about 
this  eleven  twenty-two." 

"Eleven  twenty-two,"  he  repeated,  but  I  had  not 
missed  his  change  of  expression  when  I  said  women. 

"Also,"  I  went  on,  "I  want  you  to  tell  me  who  was 
with  you  the  night  you  tried  to  break  into  the  house 
at  Bellwood." 

He  was  taken  completely  by  surprise :  when  he  had 
gathered  himself  together  his  perplexity  was  overdone. 

"With  me !"  he  repeated.     "I  was  alone,  of  course." 

"I  mean — the  woman  at  the  gate." 

He  lost  his  composure  altogether  then.  I  put  my 
back  against  the  door  and  waited  for  him  to  get  him- 
self in  hand. 

"There  was  a  woman,"  I  persisted,  "and  what  is 
more,  Wardrop,  at  this  minute  you  believe  she  took 
your  Russia  leather  bag  and  left  a  substitute." 

He  fell  into  the  trap. 

"But  she  couldn't,"  he  quavered.  "I've  thought 
until  my  brain  is  going,  and  I  don't  see  how  she  could 
have  done  it." 

He  became  sullen  when  he  saw  what  he  had  done, 
refused  any  more  information,  and  left  almost  im- 
mediately. 

Fred  came  soon  after,  and  in  the  meantime  I  had. 
made  some  notes  like  this: 

1.  Examine  warehouse  and  yard, 

2.  Attempt  to  trace  Carter. 


FIND  THE  WOMAN  191 

3.  See  station  agent  at  Bell  wood. 

4.  Inquire  Wardrop's  immediate  past. 

5.  Take  Wardrop  to  Doctor  Anderson,  the  special- 
ist. 

6.  Sr.d  Margery  violets. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ELEVEN   TWENTY-TWO  AGAIlf 

BURTON'S  idea  of  exploiting  Miss  Jane's  disap- 
pearance began  to  bear  fruit  the  next  morning. 
I  went  to  the  office  early,  anxious  to  get  my  more  pres- 
sing business  out  of  the  way,  to  have  the  afternoon 
with  Burton  to  inspect  the  warehouse.  At  nine  o'clock 
came  a  call  from  the  morgue. 

"Small  woman,  well  dressed,  gray  hair?"  I  repeated. 
"I  think  I'll  go  up  and  see.  Where  was  the  body 
found  ?" 

"In  the  river  at  Monica  Station,"  was  the  reply. 
"There  is  a  scar  diagonally  across  the  cheek  to  the 
corner  of  the  mouth." 

"A  fresh  injury?** 

"No,  an  old  scar." 

With  a  breath  of  relief  I  said  it  was  not  the  per- 
son we  were  seeking  and  tried  to  get  down  to  work 
again.  But  Burton's  prophecy  had  been  right.  Miss 
Jane  had  been  scea  in  a  hundred  different  places: 
one  perhaps  was  right;  which  one? 

A  reporter  for  the  Eagle  had  been  working  on  the 
case  all  night:  he  came  in  for  a  more  detailed  de- 
scription of  the  missing  woman,  and  he  had  a  theory, 

103 


ELEVEN  TWENTY-TWO  AGAIN     193 

to  fit  which  he  was  quite  ready  to  cut  and  trim  the 
facts. 

"It's  Rowe,"  he  said  confidently.  "You  can  see  his 
hand  in  it  right  through.  I  was  put  on  the  Benson 
kidnapping  case,  you  remember,  the  boy  who  was  kept 
for  three  months  in  a  deserted  lumber  camp  in  the 
mountains?  Well,  sir,  every  person  in  the  Benson 
house  swore  that  youngster  was  in  bed  at  mid-night, 
when  the  house  was  closed  for  the  night.  Every  door 
and  window  bolted  in  the  morning,  and  the  boy  gone. 
When  we  found  Rowe — after  the  mother  had  put  on 
mourning — and  found  the  kid,  ten  pounds  heavier  than 
he  had  been  before  he  was  abducted,  and  strutting 
around  like  a  turkey  cock,  Rowe  told  us  that  he  and  the 
boy  took  in  the  theater  that  night,  and  were  there  for 
the  first  act.  How  did  he  do  it  ?  He  offered  to  take 
the  boy  to  the  show  if  he  would  pretend  to  go  to  bed, 
and  then  slide  down  the  porch  pillar  and  meet  him. 
The  boy  didn't  want  to  go  home  when  we  found  him." 

"There  can't  be  any  mistake  about  the  time  in  this 
case,"  I  commented.  "I  saw  her  myself  after  eleven, 
and  said  good  night." 

The  Eagle  man  consulted  his  note-book.  "Oh, 
yes,"  he  asked ;  "did  she  have  a  diagonal  cut  across  her 
cheek?" 

"No,"  I  said  for  the  second  time. 

My  next  visitor  was  a  cabman.  On  the  night  in 
question  he  had  taken  a  small  and  a  very  nervous  old 
woman  to  the  Omega  ferry.  She  appeared  excited 
and  almost  forgot  to  pay  him.  She  carried  a  small 


194    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

satchel,  and  wore  a  black  veil.  What  did  she  look 
like?  She  had  gray  hair,  and  she  seemed  to  have  a 
scar  on  her  face  that  drew  the  corner  of  her  mouth. 

At  ten  o'clock  I  telephoned  Burton:  "For  Heav- 
en's sake,"  I  said,  "if  anybody  has  lost  a  little  old  lady 
in  a  black  dress,  wearing  a  black  veil,  carrying  a  sat- 
chel, and  with  a  scar  diagonally  across  her  cheek  from 
her  eye  to  her  mouth,  I  can  tell  them  all  about  her, 
and  where  she  is  now." 

"That's  funny,"  he  said.  "We're  stirring  up  the 
pool  and  bringing  up  things  we  didn't  expect.  The 
police  have  been  looking  for  that  woman  quietly  for 
a  week :  she's  the  widow  of  a  coal  baron,  and  her  son- 
in-law's  under  suspicion  of  making  away  with  her." 

"Well,  he  didn't,"  I  affirmed.  "She  committed  sui- 
cide from  an  Omega  ferry  boat  and  she's  at  the  morgue 
this  morning." 

"Bully,"  he  returned.  "Keep  on;  you'll  get  lots  of 
clues,  and  remember  one  will  be  right." 

It  was  not  until  noon,  however,  that  anything  con- 
crete developed.  In  the  two  hours  between,  I  had  in- 
terviewed seven  more  people.  I  had  followed  the  de- 
pressing last  hours  of  the  coal  baron's  widow,  and 
jumped  with  her,  mentally,  into  the  black  river  that 
night.  I  had  learned  of  a  small  fairish-haired  girl  who 
had  tried  to  buy  cyanide  of  potassium  at  three  drug- 
stores on  the  same  street,  and  of  a  tall,  light  woman 
who  had  taken  a  room  for  three  days  at  a  hotel  and 
was  apparently  demented. 

At  twelve,  however,  my  reward  came.     Two  men 


ELEVEN  TWENTY-TWO  AGAIN     195 

walked  in,  almost  at  the  same  time :  one  was  a  motor- 
man,  in  his  official  clothes,  brass  buttons  and  patches 
around  the  pockets.  The  other  was  a  taxicab  driver. 
Both  had  the  uncertain  gait  of  men  who  by  occupation 
are  unused  to  anything  stationary  under  them,  and 
each  eyed  the  other  suspiciously. 

The  motorman  claimed  priority  by  a  nose,  so  I  took 
him  first  into  my  private  office.  His  story,  shorn  of 
his  own  opinions  at  the  time  and  later,  was  as  follows : 

On  the  night  in  question,  Thursday  of  the  week 
before,  he  took  his  car  out  of  the  barn  for  the  eleven 
o'clock  run.  Barney  was  his  conductor.  They  went 
from  the  barn,  at  Hays  Street,  down-town,  and  then 
started  out  for  Wynton.  The  controller  blew  out, 
and  two  or  three  things  went  wrong:  all  told  they 
lost  forty  minutes.  They  got  to  Wynton  at  five  min- 
utes after  two;  their  time  there  was  one-twenty-five. 

The  car  went  to  the  bad  again  at  Wynton,  and  he 
and  Barney  tinkered  with  it  until  two-forty.  They 
got  it  in  shape  to  go  back  to  the  barn,  but  that  was 
all.  Just  as  they  were  ready  to  start,  a  passenger 
got  on,  a  woman,  alone :  a  small  woman  with  a  brown 
veil.  She  wore  a  black  dress  or  a  suit — he  was  vague 
about  everything  but  the  color,  and  he  noticed  her 
especially  because  she  was  fidgety  and  excited.  Half 
a  block  farther  a  man  boarded  the  car,  and  sat  across 
from  the  woman.  Barney  said  afterward  that  the 
man  tried  twice  to  speak  to  the  woman,  but  she  looked 
away  each  time.  No,  he  hadn't  heard  what  he  said. 

man  got  out  when  the  car  went  into  the  barn, 


196    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

but  the  woman  stayed  on.  He  and  Barney  got  an- 
other car  and  took  it  out,  and  the  woman  went  with 
them.  She  made  a  complete  round  trip  this  time,  go- 
ing out  to  Wynton  and  back  to  the  end  of  the  line 
down-town.  It  was  just  daylight  when  she  got  off  at 
last,  at  First  and  Day  Streets. 

Asked  if  he  had  thought  at  the  time  that  the  veiled 
woman  was  young  or  old,  he  said  he  had  thought 
she  was  probably  middle-aged.  Very  young  or  very 
old  women  would  not  put  in  the  night  riding  in  a 
street-car.  Yes,  he  had  had  men  who  rode  around  a 
couple  of  times  at  night,  mostly  to  sober  up  before 
they  went  home.  But  he  never  saw  a  woman  do  it 
before. 

I  took  his  name  and  address  and  thanked  him.  The 
chauffeur  came  next,  and  his  story  was  equally  perti- 
nent. 

On  the  night  of  the  previous  Thursday  he  had  been 
engaged  to  take  a  sick  woman  from  a  down-town 
hotel  to  a  house  at  Bellwood.  The  woman's  husband 
was  with  her,  and  they  went  slowly  to  avoid  jolting. 
It  was  after  twelve  when  he  drove  away  from  the 
house  and  started  home.  At  a  corner — he  did  not 
know  the  names  of  the  streets — a  woman  hailed  the 
cab  and  asked  him  if  he  belonged  in  Bellwood  or  was 
going  to  the  city.  She  had  missed  the  last  train. 
When  he  told  her  he  was  going  into  town,  she  promptly 
engaged  him,  and  showed  him  where  to  wait  for  her, 
a  narrow  road  off  the  main  street. 

"I  waited  an  hour,"  he  finished,  "before  she  came; 


ELEVEN  TWENTY-TWO  AGAIN     197 

I  dropped  to  sleep  or  I  would  have  gone  without 
her.  About  half -past  one  she  came  along,  and  a 
gentleman  with  her.  He  put  her  in  the  cab,  and  I 
took  her  to  the  city.  When  I  saw  in  the  paper  that 
a  lady  had  disappeared  from  Bellwood  that  night,  I 
knew  right  off  that  it  was  my  party." 

"Would  you  know  the  man  again  ?" 

"I  would  know  his  voice,  I  expect,  sir;  I  could  not 
see  much:  he  wore  a  slouch  hat  and  had  a  traveling- 
bag  of  some  kind." 

"What  did  he  say  to  the  woman?"  I  asked. 

"He  didn't  say  much.  Before  he  closed  the  door, 
he  said,  'You  have  put  me  in  a  terrible  position/  or 
something  like  that.  From  the  traveling-bag  and  all, 
I  thought  perhaps  it  was  an  elopement,  and  the  lady 
had  decided  to  throw  him  down." 

"Was  it  a  young  woman  or  an  old  one,"  I  asked 
again.  This  time  the  cabby's  tone  was  assured. 

"Young,"  he  asserted,  "slim  and  quick:  dressed  in 
black,  with  a  black  veil.  Soft  Toice.  She  got  out  at 
Market  Square,  and  I  have  an  idea  she  took  a  cross- 
town  car  there." 

"I  hardly  think  it  was  Miss  Maitland,"  I  said. 
"She  was  past  sixty,  and  besides — I  don't  think  she 
went  that  way.  Still  it  is  worth  following  up.  Is 
that  all?" 

He  fumbled  in  his  pocket,  and  after  a  minute  brought 
up  a  small  black  pocket-book  and  held  it  out  to  me. 
It  was  the  small  coin  purse  out  of  a  leather  hand-bag. 

"She  dropped  this  in  the  cab,  sir,"  he  said.     "I  took 


198    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

it  home  to  the  missus — not  knowing  what  else  to  do 
with  it.  It  had  no  money  in  it — only  that  bit  of  pa- 
per." 

I  opened  the  purse  and  took  out  a  small  white  card, 
without  engraving.  On  it  was  written  in  a  pencil  the 
figures : 

C  1122 


CHAPTER  XVII 

HIS  SECOND  WIFE 

WHEN  the  cabman  had  gone,  I  sat  down  and  tried 
to  think  things  out.  As  I  have  said  many  times 
in  the  course  of  tin's  narrative,  I  lack  imagination : 
moreover,  a  long  experience  of  witnesses  in  court  had 
taught  me  the  unreliability  of  average  observation. 
The  very  fact  that  two  men  swore  to  having  taken  soli- 
tary women  away  from  Bellwood  that  night,  made  me 
doubt  if  either  one  had  really  seen  the  missing  wo- 
man. 

Of  the  two  stories,  the  taxicab  driver's  was  the 
more  probable,  as  far  as  Miss  Jane  was  concerned. 
Knowing  her  child-like  nature,  her  timidity,  her  shrink- 
ing and  shamefaceti  fear  of  the  dark,  it  was  almost 
incredible  that  she  would  walk  the  three  miles  to  Wyn- 
ton,  voluntarily,  and  from  there  lose  herself  in  the 
city.  Besides,  such  an  explanation  would  not  fit  the 
blood-stains,  or  the  fact  that  she  had  gone,  as  far  as 
we  could  find  out,  in  her  night-clothes. 

Still — she  had  left  the  village  that  night,  either  by 
cab  or  on  foot.  If  the  driver  had  been  correct  in  his 
time,  however,  the  taxicab  was  almost  eliminated;  he 
said  the  woman  got  into  the  cab  at  one-thirty.  It  was 

199 


200    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

between  one-thirty  and  one-forty-five  when  Margery 
heard  the  footsteps  in  the  attic. 

I  think  for  the  first  time  it  came  to  me,  that  day, 
that  there  was  at  least  a  possibility  that  Miss  Jane  had 
not  been  attacked,  nobbed  or  injured :  that  she  had  left 
home  voluntarily,  under  stress  of  great  excitement. 
But  if  she  had,  why?  The  mystery  was  hardly  less 
for  being  stripped  of  its  gruesome  details.  Nothing 
in  my  knowledge  of  the  missing  woman  gave  me  a  clue. 
I  had  a  vague  hope  that,  if  she  had  gone  voluntarily, 
she  would  see  the  newspapers  and  let  us  know  where 
she  was. 

To  my  list  of  exhibits  I  added  the  purse  with  its 
inclosure.  The  secret  drawer  of  my  desk  now  con- 
tained, besides  the  purse,  the  slip  marked  eleven  twenty- 
two  that  had  been  pinned  to  Fleming's  pillow;  the 
similar  scrap  found  over  Miss  Jane's  mantel ;  the  pearl 
I  had  found  on  the  floor  of  the  closet  and  the  cyanide, 
which,  as  well  as  the  bullet,  Burton  had  given  me. 
Add  to  these  the  still  tender  place  on  my  head  where 
Wardrop  had  almost  brained  me  with  a  chair,  and 
a  blue  ankle,  now  becoming  spotted  with  yellow,  where 
I  had  fallen  down  the  dumb-waiter,  and  my  list  of 
visible  reminders  of  the  double  mystery  grew  to 
eight. 

I  was  not  proud  of  the  part  I  had  played.  So  far, 
I  had  blundered,  it  seemed  to  me,  at  every  point  where 
a  blunder  was  possible.  I  had  fallen  over  folding 
chairs  and  down  a  shaft;  I  had  been  a  half-hour  too 
late  to  save  Allan  Fleming;  I  had  been  up  and  awake^ 


HIS  SECOND  WIFE  201 

and  Miss  Jane  had  got  out  of  the  house  under  my 
very  nose.  Last,  and  by  no  means  least,  I  had  waited 
thirty-five  years  to  find  the  right  woman,  and  when 
I  found  her,  some  one  else  had  won  her.  I  was  in 
the  depths  that  day  when  Burton  came  in. 

He  walked  into  the  office  jauntily  and  presented 
Miss  Grant  with  a  club  sandwich  neatly  done  up  in 
waxed  paper.  Then  he  came  into  my  private  room 
and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

"Avaunt,  dull  care!"  he  exclaimed,  taking  in  my 
dejected  attitude  and  exhibits  on  the  desk  at  a  glance. 
"Look  up  and  grin,  my  friend."  He  had  his  hands  be- 
hind him. 

"Don't  be  a  fool,"  I  snapped.  "I'll  not  grin  unless 
I  feel  like  it." 

"Grin,  darn  you,"  he  said,  and  put  something  on 
the  desk  in  front  of  me.  It  was  a  Russia  leather  bag. 

"The  leather  bag!"  he  pointed  proudly. 

"Where  did  you  get  it?"  I  exclaimed,  incredulous. 
Burton  fumbled  with  the  Icfck  while  he  explained. 

"It  was  found  in  Boston,"  he  said.  "How  do  you 
open  the  thing,  anyhow?" 

It  was  not  locked,  and  I  got  it  open  in  a  minute. 
As  I  had  expected,  it  was  empty. 

"Then — perhaps  Wardrop  was  telling  the  truth," 
I  exclaimed.  "By  Jove,  Burton,  he  was  robbed  by 
the  woman  in  the  cab,  and  he  can't  tell  about  her  on 
account  of  Miss  Fleming !  She  made  a  haul,  for  cer- 
tain." 

I  told  him  then  of  the  two  women  who  had  left 


202     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

Bellwood  on  the  night  of  Miss  Jane's  disappearance, 
and  showed  him  the  purse  and  its  inclosure.  The 
C  puzzled  him  as  it  had  me.  "It  might  be  anything," 
he  said  as  he  gave  it  back,  "from  a  book,  chapter  and 
verse  in  the  Bible  to  a  prescription  for  rheumatism 
at  a  drug-store.  As  to  the  lady  in  the  cab,  I  think 
perhaps  you  are  right,"  he  said,  examining  the  inte- 
rior of  the  bag,  where  Wardrop's  name  in  ink  told  its 
story.  "Of  course,  we  have  only  Wardrop's  word  that 
he  brought  the  bag  to  Bellwood;  if  we  grant  that  we 
can  grant  the  rest — that  he  was  robbed,  that  the  thief 
emptied  the  bag,  and  either  took  it  or  shipped  it  to 
Boston." 

"How  on  earth  did  you  get  it?" 

"It  was  a  coincidence.  There  have  been  a  shrewd 
lot  of  baggage  thieves  in  two  or  three  eastern  cities 
lately,  mostly  Boston.  The  method,  the  police  say, 
was  something  like  this — one  of  them,  the  chief  of  the 
gang,  would  get  a  wagon,  dress  like  an  expressman 
and  go  round  the  depots  looking  at  baggage.  He 
would  make  a  mental  note  of  the  numbers,  go  away 
and  forge  a  check  to  match,  and  secure  the  pieces  he 
had  taken  a  fancy  to.  Then  he  merely  drove  around 
to  headquarters,  and  the  trunk  was  rifled.  The  police 
got  on,  raided  the  place,  and  found,  among  others,  our 
Russia  leather  bag.  It  was  shipped  back,  empty,  to 
the  address  inside,  at  Bellwood." 

"At  Bellwood?     Then  how—" 

"It  came  while  I  was  lunching  with  Miss  Letitia," 
he  said  easily.  "We're  very  chummy — thick  as  thieves. 


HIS  SECOND  WIFE  203 

What  I  want  to  know  is" — disregarding  my  astonish- 
ment— "where  is  the  hundred  thousand?" 

"Find  the  woman." 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  Anderson,  the  nerve  spe- 
cialist ?"  he  asked,  without  apparent  relevancy. 

"I  have  been  thinking  of  him,"  I  answered.  "If 
•we  could  get  Wardrop  there,  on  some  plausible  ex- 
cuse, it  would  take  Anderson  about  ten  minutes  with 
his  instruments  and  experimental  psychology,  to  know 
everything  Wardrop  ever  forgot." 

"I'll  go  on  one  condition,"  Burton  said,  preparing 
to  leave.  "I'll  promise  to  get  Wardrop  and  have 
him  on  the  spot  two  o'clock  to-morrow,  if  you'll  prom- 
ise me  one  thing:  if  Anderson  fixes  me  with  his  eye, 
and  I  begin  to  look  dotty  and  tell  about  my  past  life, 
I  want  you  to  take  me  by  the  flap  of  my  ear  and  lead 
me  gently  home." 

"I  promise,"  I  said,  and  Burton  left. 

The  recovery  of  the  bag  was  only  one  of  the  many 
astonishing  things  that  happened  that  day  and  the 
following  night.  Hawes,  who  knew  little  of  what 
it  all  meant,  and  disapproved  a  great  deal,  ended  that 
afternoon  by  locking  himself,  blinking  furiously,  in  his 
private  office.  To  Hawes  any  practice  that  was  not 
lucrative  was  bad  practice.  About  four  o'clock,  when 
I  had  shut  myself  away  from  the  crowd  in  the  outer 
office,  and  was  letting  Miss  Grant  take  their  depositions 
as  to  when  and  where  they  had  seen  a  little  old  lady, 
probably  demented,  wandering  around  the  streets,  a 
woman  came  who  refused  to  be  turned  away. 


204    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

"Young  woman/'  I  heard  her  say,  speaking  to  Miss 
Grant,  "he  may  have  important  business,  but  I  gues« 
mine's  just  a  little  more  so." 

I  interfered  then,  and  let  her  come  in.  She  was  a 
woman  of  medium  height,  quietly  dressed,  and  fairly 
handsome.  My  first  impression  was  favorable;  she 
moved  with  a  certain  dignity,  and  she  was  not  laced, 
crimped  or  made  up.  I  am  more  sophisticated  now; 
The  Lady  Who  Tells  Me  Things  says  that  the  respect- 
able women  nowadays,  out-rouge,  out-crimp  and  out- 
lace  the  unrespectable.  < 

However,  the  illusion  was  gone  the  moment  she 
began  to  speak.  Her  voice  was  heavy,  throaty,  ex- 
pressionless. She  threw  it  like  a  weapon:  I  am  per- 
fectly honest  in  saying  that  for  a  moment  the  sur- 
prise of  her  voice  outweighed  the  remarkable  thing 
she  was  saying. 

"I  am  Mrs.  Allan  Fleming,"  she  said,  with  a  cer- 
tain husky  defiance. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  said,  after  a  minute.  "You 
mean — the  Allan  Fleming  who  has  just  died?" 

She  nodded.  I  could  see  she  was  unable,  just  then, 
to  speak.  She  had  nerved  herself  to  the  interview,  but 
it  was  evident  that  there  was  a  real  grief.  She  fum- 
bled for  a  black-bordered  handkerchief,  and  her  throat 
worked  convulsively.  I  saw  now  that  she  was  in 
mourning. 

"Do  you  mean,"  I  asked  incredulously,  "that  Mr. 
Fleming  married  a  second  time  ?" 

"He  married  me  three  years  ago,  in  Plattsburg.     I 


HIS  SECOND  WIFE  205 

•ame  from  there  last  night.     I — couldn't  leave  before." 

"Does  Miss  Fleming  know  about  this  second  mar- 
riage ?" 

"No.  Nobody  knew  about  it.  I  have  had  to  put 
up  with  a  great  deal,  Mr.  Knox.  It's  a  hard  thing 
for  a  woman  to  know  that  people  are  talking  about 
her,  and  all  the  time  she's  married  as  tight  as  ring 
and  book  can  do  it." 

"I  suppose,"  I  hazarded,  "if  that  is  the  case,  you 
have  come  about  the  estate." 

"Estate!"  Her  tone  was  scornful.  "I  guess  I'll 
take  what's  coming  to  me,  as  far  as  that  goe* — and 
it  won't  be  much.  No,  I  came  to  ask  what  they  mean 
by  saying  Allan  Fleming  killed  himself." 

"Don't  you  think  he  did?" 

"I  know  he  did  not,"  she  said  tensely.  "Not  only 
that:  I  know  who  did  it.  It  was  Schwartz — Heary 
Schwartz." 

"Schwartz !     But  what  on  earth — " 

"You  don't  know  Schwartz,"  she  said  grimly.  "I 
was  married  to  him  for  fifteen  years.  I  took  him 
when  he  had  a  saloon  in  the  Fifth  Ward,  at  Platts- 
burg.  The  next  year  he  was  alderman:  I  didn't  ex- 
pect in  those  days  to  see  him  riding  around  in  an  au- 
tomobile— not  but  what  he  was  making  maney — 
Henry  Schwartz  is  a  money-maker.  That's  why  he's 
boss  of  the  state  now." 

"And  you  divorced  him?" 

"He  was  a  brute,"  she  said  vindictirely.  "He 
waated  me  to  go  back  to  him,  and  I  told  him  I  would 


206     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

rather  die.  I  took  a  big  house,  and  kept  bachelor 
suites  for  gentlemen.  Mr.  Fleming  lived  there,  and — 
he  married  me  three  years  ago.  He  and  Schwartz  had 
to  stand  together,  but  they  hated  each  other." 

"Schwartz?"  I  meditated.  "Do  you  happen  to 
know  if  Senator  Schwartz  was  in  Plattsburg  at  the 
time  of  the  mur —  of  Mr.  Fleming's  death  ?" 

"He  was  here  in  Manchester." 

"He  had  threatened  Mr.  Fleming's  life?" 

"He  had  already  tried  to  kill  him,  the  day  we  were 
married.  He  stabbed  him  twice,  but  not  deep  enough." 

I  looked  at  her  in  wonder.  For  this  woman,  not 
extraordinarily  handsome,  two  men  had  fought  and 
one  had  died — according  to  her  story. 

"I  can  prove  everything  I  say,"  she  went  on  rap- 
idly. "I  have  letters  from  Mr.  Fleming  telling  me 
what  to  do  in  case  he  was  shot  down;  I  have  papers 
— canceled  notes — that  would  put  Schwartz  in  the  peni- 
tentiary— that  is,"  she  said  cunningly,  "I  did  have  them. 
Mr.  Fleming  took  them  away." 

"Aren't  you  afraid  for  yourself?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  I'm  afraid — afraid  he'll  get  me  back  yet.  It 
would  please  him  to  see  me  crawl  back  on  my  knees." 

"But — he  can  not  force  you  to  go  back  to  him." 

"Yes,  he  can,"  she  shivered.  From  which  I  knew 
she  had  told  me  only  a  part  of  her  story. 

After  all  she  had  nothing  more  to  tell.  Fleming 
had  been  shot;  Schwartz  had  been  in  the  city  about 
the  Borough  Bank;  he  had  threatened  Fleming  before, 


HIS  SECOND  WIFE  207 

but  a  political  peace  had  been  patched ;  Schwartz  knew 
the  White  Cat.  That  was  all. 

Before  she  left  she  told  me  something  I  had  not 
known. 

"I  know  a  lot  about  inside  politics,"  she  said,  as 
she  got  up.  "I  have  seen  the  state  divided  up  with 
the  roast  at  my  table,  and  served  around  with  the  des- 
sert, and  I  can  tell  you  something  you  don't  know 
about  your  White  Cat.  A  back  staircase  leads  to  one 
of  the  up-stairs  rooms,  and  shuts  off  with  a  locked 
door.  It  opens  below,  out  a  side  entrance,  not  sup- 
posed to  be  used.  Only  a  few  know  of  it.  Henry 
Butler  was  found  dead  at  the  foot  of  that  staircase." 

"He  shot  himself,  didn't  he?" 

"The  police  said  so,"  she  replied,  with  her  grim 
smile.  "There  is  such  a  thing  as  murdering  a  man 
by  driving  him  to  suicide." 

She  wrote  an  address  on  a  card  and  gave  it  to  me. 

"Just  a  minute,"  I  said,  as  she  was  about  to  go. 
"Have  you  ever  heard  Mr.  Fleming  speak  of  the  Misses 
Maitland?" 

"They  were — his  first  wife's  sisters.  No,  he  never 
talked  of  them,  but  I  believe,  just  before  he  left  Platts- 
burg,  he  tried  to  borrow  some  money  from  them." 

"And  failed?" 

"The  oldest  one  telegraphed  the  refusal,  collect," 
she  said,  smiling  faintly. 

"There  is  something  else,"  I  said.  "Did  you  ever 
hear  of  the  number  eleven  twenty-two?" 


208    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

"No — or — why,  yes — "  she  said.  "It  is  the  number 
of  my  house." 

It  seemed  rather  ridiculous,  when  she  had  gone, 
and  I  sat  down  to  think  it  over.  It  was  anticlimax, 
to  say  the  least.  If  the  mysterious  number  meant 
only  the  address  of  this  very  ordinary  woman,  then 
— it  was  probable  her  story  of  Schwartz  was  true 
enough.  But  I  could  not  reconcile  myself  to  it,  nor 
could  I  imagine  Schwartz,  with  his  great  bulk,  skulk- 
ing around  pinning  scraps  of  paper  to  pillows. 

It  would  have  been  more  like  the  fearlessness  and 
passion  of  the  man  to  have  shot  Fleming  down  in  the 
state  house  corridor,  or  on  the  street,  and  to  have 
trusted  to  his  influence  to  set  him  free.  For  the  first 
time  it  occurred  to  me  that  there  was  something  essen- 
tially feminine  in  the  revenge  of  the  figures  that  had 
haunted  the  dead  man. 

I  wondered  if  Mrs.  Fleming  had  told  me  all,  or  only 
half  the  truth. 

That  night,  at  the  most  peaceful  spot  I  had  ever 
known,  Fred's  home,  occurred  another  inexplicable 
affair,  one  that  left  us  all  with  racked  nerves  and  lis- 
tening, fearful  ears. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
EDITH'S  COUSIN 

THAT  was  to  be  Margery's  last  evening  at  Fred's. 
Edith  had  kept  her  as  long  as  she  could,  but  the 
girl  felt  that  her  place  was  with  Miss  Letitia.  Edith 
was  desolate. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  am  going  to  do  without  you," 
she  said  that  night  when  we  were  all  together  in  the 
library,  with  a  wood  fire,  for  light  and  coziness  more 
than  heat.  Margery  was  sitting  before  the  fire,  and 
while  the  others  talked  she  sat  mostly  silent,  looking 
into  the  blaze. 

The  May  night  was  cold  and  rainy,  and  Fred  had 
been  reading  us  a  poem  he  had  just  finished,  receiv- 
ing with  indifference  my  comment  on  it,  and  basking 
in  Edith's  rapture. 

"Do  you  know  yourself  what  it  is  about?"  I  in- 
quired caustically. 

"If  it's  about  anything,  it  isn't  poetry,"  he  replied. 
"Poetry  appeals  to  the  ear:  it  is  primarily  sensuous. 
If  it  is  more  than  that  it  ceases  to  be  poetry  and  be- 
comes verse." 

Edith  yawned. 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  getting  (Ad,"  she  said,  "I'm  get- 

209 


210    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

ting  the  nap  habit  after  dinner.  Fred,  run  up,  will 
you,  and  see  if  Katie  put  blankets  over  the  boys?" 

Fred  stuffed  his  poem  in  his  pocket  and  went  re- 
signedly up-stairs.  Edith  yawned  again,  and  pre- 
pared to  retire  to  the  den  for  forty  winks. 

"If  Ellen  decides  to  come  down-stairs,"  she  called 
back  over  her  shoulder,  "please  come  and  wake  me. 
She  said  she  felt  better  and  might  come  down." 

At  the  door  she  turned,  behind  Margery's  back, 
and  made  me  a  sweeping  and  comprehensive  signal. 
She  finished  it  off  with  a  double  wink,  Edith  having 
never  been  able  to  wink  one  eye  alone,  and  crossing 
the  hall,  closed  the  door  of  the  den  with  an  obtrusive 
bang. 

Margery  and  I  were  alone.  The  girl  looked  at  me, 
smiled  a  little,  and  drew  a  long  breath. 

"It's  queer  about  Edith,"  I  said;  "I  never  before 
knew  her  to  get  drowsy  after  dinner.  If  she  were 
not  beyond  suspicion,  I  would  think  it  a  deep-laid 
scheme,  and  she  and  Fred  sitting  and  holding  hands 
in  a  corner  somewhere." 

"But  why — a  scheme?"  she  had  folded  her  hands 
in  her  lap,  and  the  eternal  ring  sparkled  malignantly. 

"They  might  think  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you,"  I  sug- 
gested. 

"Tome?" 

"To  you —    The  fact  is,  I  do." 

Perhaps  I  was  morbid  about  the  ring:  it  seemed  to 
me  she  lifted  her  hand  and  looked  at  it. 

"It's  drafty  in  here :  don't  you  think  so  ?"  she  asked 


EDITH'S  COUSIN 211 

suddenly,  looking  back  of  her.  Probably  she  had  not 
meant  it,  but  I  got  up  and  closed  the  door  into  the 
hall.  When  I  came  back  I  took  the  chair  next  to  her, 
and  for  a  moment  we  said  nothing.  The  log  threw  out 
tiny  red  devil  sparks,  and  the  clock  chimed  eight,  very 
slowly. 

"Harry  Wardrop  was  here  last  night,"  I  said,  pok- 
ing down  the  log  with  my  heel. 

"Here?" 

"Yes.  I  suppose  I  was  wrong,  but  I  did  not  say 
you  were  here." 

She  turned  and  looked  at  me  closely,  out  of  the 
most  beautiful  eyes  I  ever  saw. 

"I'm  not  afraid  to  see  him,"  she  said  proudly,  "and 
he  ought  not  to  be  afraid  to  see  me." 

"I  want  to  tell  you  something  before  you  see  him. 
Last  night,  before  he  came,  I  thought  that — well,  that 
at  least  he  knew  something  of — the  things  we  want 
to  know." 

"Yes?" 

"la  justice  to  him,  and  because  I  want  to  fight 
fair,  I  tell  you  to-night  that  I  don't  believe  he  knows 
anything  about  your  father's  death,  and  that  I  be- 
lieve he  was  robbed  that  night  at  Bellwood." 

"What  about  the  pearls  he  sold  at  Plattsburg?"  she 
asked  suddenly. 

"I  think  when  the  proper  time  comes,  he  will  tell 
about  that  too,  Margery."  I  did  not  notice  my  use 
of  her  name  until  too  late.  If  she  heard,  she  failed 
to  resent  it.  "After  all,  if  you  love  him,  hardly  any- 


212     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

thing  else  matters,  does  it?  How  do  we  know  but 
that  he  was  in  trouble,  and  that  Aunt  Jane  herself 
gave  them  to  him  ?" 

She  looked  at  me  with  a  little  perplexity. 

"You  plead  his  cause  very  well,"  she  said.  "Did  he 
ask  you  to  speak  to  me  ?" 

"I  won't  run  a  race  with  a  man  who  is  lame,"  I 
said  quietly.  "Ethically,  I  ought  to  go  away  and 
leave  you  to  your  dreams,  but  I  am  not  going  to  do 
it.  If  you  love  Wardrop  as  a  woman  ought  to  love 
the  man  she  marries,  then  marry  him  and  I  hope 
you  will  be  happy.  If  you  don't — no,  let  me  finish. 
I  have  made  up  my  mm/l  to  clear  him  if  I  can:  to 
bring  him  to  you  with  a  clear  slate.  Then,  I  know 
it  is  audacious,  but  I  am  going  to  come,  too,  and — 
I'm  going  to  plead  for  myself  then,  unless  you  send 
me  away." 

She  sat  with  her  head  bent,  her  color  coming  and 
going  nervously.  Now  she  looked  up  at  me  with 
what  was  the  ghost  of  a  smile. 

"It  sounds  like  a  threat,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 
"And  you — I  wonder  if  you  always  get  what  you 
want?" 

Then,  of  course,  Fred  came  in,  and  fell  over  a  has- 
sock looking  for  matches.  Edith  openedxthe  door  of 
the  den  and  called  him  to  her  irritably,  but  Fred  de- 
clined to  leave  the  wood  fire,  and  settled  down  in  his 
easy  chair.  After  a  while  Edith  came  over  and  joined 
us,  but  she  snubbed  Fred  the  entire  evening,  to  his  be- 
wilderment. And  when  conversation  lagged,  during 


EDITH'S  COUSIN  213 

the  evening  that  followed,  I  tried  to  remember  what  I 
had  said,  and  knew  I  had  done  very  badly.  Only  one 
thing  cheered  me :  she  had  not  been  angry,  and  she  had 
understood.  Blessed  be  the  woman  that  understands ! 

We  broke  up  for  the  night  about  eleven.  Mrs. 
Butler  had  come  down  for  a  while,  and  had  even  played 
a  little,  something  of  Tschaikovsky's,  a  singing,  plain- 
tive theme  that  brought  sadness  back  into  Margery's 
face,  and  made  me  think,  for  no  reason,  of  a  wet 
country  road  and  a  plodding,  back-burdened  peasant. 

Fred  and  I  sat  in  the  library  for  a  while  after  the 
rest  had  gone,  and  I  told  him  a  little  of  what  I  had 
learned  that  afternoon. 

"A  second  wife!"  he  said,  "and  a  primitive  type, 
eh  ?  Well,  did  she  shoot  him,  or  did  Schwartz  ?  The 
Lady  or  the  Democratic  Tiger  ?" 

"The  Tiger,"  I  said  firmly. 

"The  Lady,"  Fred,  with  equal  assurance. 

Fred  closed  the  house  with  his  usual  care.  It  re- 
quired the  combined  efforts  of  the  maids  followed  up 
by  Fred,  to  lock  the  windows,  it  being  his  confident 
assertion  that  in  seven  years  of  keeping  house,  he  had 
never  failed  to  find  at  least  one  unlocked  window. 

On  that  night,  I  remember,  he  went  around  with 
his  usual  scrupulous  care.  Then  we  went  up  to  bed, 
leaving  a  small  light  at  the  telephone  in  the  lower  hall : 
nothing  else. 

The  house  was  a  double  one,  built  around  a  square 
hall  below,  which  served  the  purpose  of  a  general  sit- 
ting-room. From  the  front  door  a  short,  narrow  hall 


214     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

led  back  to  this,  with  a  room  on  either  side,  and  from 
it  doors  led  into  the  rest  of  the  lower  floor.  At  one 
side  the  stairs  took  the  ascent  easily,  with  two  stops 
for  landings,  and  up-stairs  the  bedrooms  opened  from 
a  similar,  slightly  smaller  square  hall.  The  staircase 
to  the  third  floor  went  up  from-  somewhere  back  in 
the  nursery  wing. 

My  bedroom  was  over  the  library,  and  Mrs.  Butler 
and  Margery  Fleming  had  connecting  rooms,  across 
the  hall.  Fred  and  Edith  slept  in  the  nursery  wing, 
so  they  would  be  near  the  children.  In  the  square 
upper  hall  there  was  a  big  reading  table,  a  lamp,  and 
so'me  comfortable  chairs.  Here,  when  they  were  alone, 
Fred  read  aloud  the  evening  paper,  or  his  latest  short 
story,  and  Edith's  sewing  basket  showed  how  she  put 
in  what  women  miscall  their  leisure. 

I  did  not  go  to  sleep  at  once:  naturally  the  rather 
vital  step  I  had  taken  in  the  library  insisted  on  being 
considered  and  almost  regretted.  I  tried  reading  my- 
self to  sleep,  and  when  that  failed,  I  tried  the  soothing 
combination  of  a  cigarette  and  a  book.  That  worked 
like  a  charm ;  the  last  thing  I  remember  is  of  holding 
the  cigarette  in  a  death  grip  as  I  lay  with  my  pillows 
propped  back  of  me,  my  head  to  the  light,  and  a  de- 
lightful languor  creeping  over  me. 

I  was  wakened  by  the  pungent  acrid  smell  of  smoke, 
and  I  sat  up  and  blinked  my  eyes  open.  The  side  of 
the  bed  was  sending  up  a  steady  column  of  gray  smoke, 
and  there  was  a  smart  crackle  of  fire  under  me  some- 
where. I  jumped  out  of  bed  and  saw  the  trouble  in- 


EDITH'S  COUSIN  215 

stantly.  My  cigarette  had  dropped  from  my  hand, 
still  lighted,  and  as  is  the  way  with  cigarettes,  deter- 
mined to  burn  to  the  end.  In  so  doing  it  had  fired  my 
bed,  the  rug  under  the  bed  and  pretty  nearly  the  man 
on  the  bed. 

It  took  some  sharp  work  to  get  it  all  out  without 
rousing  the  house.  Then  I  stood  amid  the  wreckage 
and  looked  ruefully  at  Edith's  pretty  room.  I  could 
see,  mentally,  the  spot  of  water  on  the  library  ceiling 
the  next  morning,  and  I  could  hear  Fred's  strictures  on 
the  heedlessness  and  indifference  to  property  of 
bachelors  in  general  and  me  in  particular. 

Three  pitchers  of  water  on  the  bed  had  made  it  an 
impossible  couch.  I  put  on  a  dressing-gown,  and, 
with  a  blanket  over  my  arm,  I  went  out  to  hunt  some 
sort  of  place  to  sleep.  I  decided  on  the  davenport 
in  the  hall  just  outside,  and  as  quietly  as  I  could,  I 
put  a  screen  around  it  and  settled  down  for  the  night. 

I  was  wakened  by  the  touch  of  a  hand  on  my  face. 
I  started,  I  think,  and  the  hand  was  jerked  away — 
I  am  not  sure:  I  was  still  drowsy.  I  lay  very  quiet, 
listening  for  footsteps,  but  none  came.  With  the  feel- 
ing that  there  was  some  one  behind  the  screen,  I  jumped 
up.  The  hall  was  dark  and  quiet.  When  I  found  no 
one  I  concluded  it  had  been  only  a  vivid  dream,  and 
I  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  davenport  and  yawned. 

I  heard  Edith  moving  back  in  the  nursery:  she  has 
an  uncomfortable  habit  of  wandering  around  in  the 
night,  covering  the  children,  closing  windows,  and 
sniffing  for  fire.  I  was  afraid  some  of  the  smoke 


216    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

from  my  conflagration  had  reached  her  suspicious 
nose,  but  she  did  not  come  into  the  front  hall.  I  was 
wide-awake  by  that  time,  and  it  was  then,  I  think,  that 
I  noticed  a  heavy,  sweetish  odor  in  the  air.  At  first  I 
thought  one  of  the  children  might  be  ill,  and  that  Edith 
was  dosing  him  with  one  of  the  choice  concoctions 
that  she  kept  in  the  bath-room  medicine  closet.  When 
she  closed  her  door,  however,  and  went  back  to  bed,  I 
knew  I  had  been  mistaken. 

The  sweetish  smell  was  almost  nauseating.  For 
some  reason  or  other — association  of  certain  odors 
with  certain  events — I  found  myself  recalling  the  time 
I  had  a  wisdom  tooth  taken  out,  and  that  when 
I  came  around  I  was  being  sat  on  by  the  dentist  and 
his  assistant,  and  the  latter  had  a  black  eye.  Then, 
suddenly,  I  knew.  The  sickly  odor  was  chloroform! 

I  had  the  light  on  in  a  moment,  and  was  rapping1 
at  Margery's  door.  It  was  locked,  and  I  got  no  an- 
swer. A  pale  light  shown  over  the  transom,  but  every- 
thing was  ominously  quiet,  beyond  the  door.  I  went 
to  Mrs.  Butler's  door,  next ;  it  was  unlocked  and  partly 
open.  One  glance  at  the  empty  bed  and  the  confusion 
of  the  place,  and  I  rushed  without  ceremony  through 
the  connecting  door  into  Margery's  room. 

The  atmosphere  was  reeking  with  chloroform.  The 
girl  was  in  bed,  apparently  sleeping  quietly.  One  arm 
was  thrown  up  over  her  head,  and  the  other  lay  re- 
laxed on  the  white  cover.  A  folded  towel  had  been 
laid  across  her  face,  and  when  I  jerked  it  away  I  saw 


EDITH'S  COUSIN 217 

she  was  breathing  very  slowly,  stertorously,  with  her 
eyes  partly  open  and  fixed. 

I  threw  up  all  the  windows,  before  I  roused  the 
family,  and  as  soon  as  Edith  was  in  the  room  I  tele- 
phoned for  the  doctor.  I  hardly  remember  what  I  did 
until  he  came :  I  know  we  tried  to  rouse  Margery  and 
failed,  and  I  know  that  Fred  went  down-stairs  and 
said  the  silver  was  intact  and  the  back  kitchen  door 
open.  And  then  the  doctor  came,  and  I  was  put  out  in 
the  hall,  and  for  an  eternity,  I  walked  up  and  down, 
eight  steps  one  way,  eight  steps  back,  unable  to  think, 
unable  even  to  hope. 

Not  until  the  doctor  came  out  to  me,  and  said  she 
was  better,  and  would  I  call  a  maid  to  make  some 
strong  black  coffee,  did  I  come  out  of  my  stupor.  The 
chance  of  doing  something,  anything,  made  me  de- 
termine to  make  the  coffee  myself.  They  Still  speak 
of  that  coffee  at  Fred's. 

It  was  Edith  who  brought  Mrs.  Butler  to  my  mind. 
Fred  had  maintained  that  she  had  fled  before  the  in- 
truders, and  was  probably  in  some  closet  or  corner  of 
the  upper  floor.  I  am  afraid  our  solicitude  was  long 
in  coming.  It  was  almost  an  hour  before  we  organized 
a  searching  party  to  look  for  her.  Fred  went  up-stairs, 
and  I  took  the  lower  floor. 

It  was  I  who  found  her,  after  all,  lying  full  length 
on  the  grass  in  the  little  square  yard  back  of  the  house. 
She  was  in  a  dead  faint,  and  she  was  a  much  more 
difficult  patient  than  Margery. 


218    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

We  could  get  no  story  from  either  of  them  that 
night.  The  two  rooms  had  been  ransacked,  but  ap- 
parently nothing  had  been  stolen.  Fred  vowed  he 
had  locked  and  bolted  the  kitchen  door,  and  that  it 
had  been  opened  from  within. 

It  was  a  strange  experience,  that  night  intrusion  into 
the  house,  without  robbery  as  a  motive.  If  Margery 
knew  or  suspected  the  reason  for  the  outrage,  she  re- 
fused to  say.  As  for  Mrs.  Butler,  to  mention  the  oc- 
currence put  her  into  hysteria.  It  was  Fred  who  put 
forth  the  most  startling  theory  of  the  lot. 

"By  George,"  he  said  the  next  morning  when  we 
had  failed  to  find  tracks  in  the  yard,  and  Edith  had 
reported  every  silver  spoon  in  its  place,  "by  George,  it 
wouldn't  surprise  me  if  the  lady  in  the  grave  clothes 
did  it  herself.  There  isn't  anything  a  hysterical  woman 
won't  do  to  rouse  your  interest  in  her,  if  it  begins  to 
flag.  How  did  any  one  get  in  through  that  kitchen 
door,  when  it  was  locked  inside  and  bolted  ?  I  tell  you, 
she  opened  it  herself." 

I  did  not  like  to  force  Margery's  confidence,  but  I 
believed  that  the  outrage  was  directly  for  the  purpose 
of  searching  her  room,  perhaps  for  papers  that  had  been 
her  father's.  Mrs.  Butler  came  around  enough  by 
morning,  to  tell  a  semi-connected  story  in  which  she 
claimed  that  two  men  had  come  in  from  a  veranda 
roof,  and  tried  to  chloroform  her.  That  she  had  pre- 
tended to  be  asleep  and  had  taken  the  first  opportunity, 
while  they  were  in  the  other  room,  to  run  down-stairs 


EDITH'S  COUSIN 219 

and  into  the  yard.     Edith  thought  it  likely  enough, 
being  a  credulous  person. 

As  it  turned  out,  Edith's  intuition  was  more  reliable 
than  my  skepticism,— or  Fred's* 


CHAPTER  XIX 

BACK  TO  BELLWOOD 

inability  of  Margery  Fleming  to  tell  who  had 
•*•  chloroformed  her,  and  Mrs.  Butler's  white  face 
and  brooding  eyes  made  a  very  respectable  mystery 
out  of  the  affair.  Only  Fred,  Edith  and  I  came  down 
to  breakfast  that  morning.  Fred's  expression  was 
half  amused,  half  puzzled.  Edith  fluttered  uneasily 
over  the  coffee  machine,  her  cheeks  as  red  as  the  bow 
of  ribbon  at  her  throat.  I  was  preoccupied,  and,  like 
Fred,  I  propped  the  morning  paper  in  front  of  me  and 
proceeded  to  think  in  its  shelter. 

"Did  you  find  anything,  Fred  ?"  Edith  asked.  Fred 
did  not  reply,  so  she  repeated  the  question  with  some 
emphasis. 

"Eh — what?"  Fred  inquired,  peering  around  the 
corner  of  the  paper. 

"Did — you — find — any — clue  ?" 

"Yes,  dear — that  is,  no.  Nothing  to  amount  to  any- 
thing. Upon  my  soul,  Jack,  if  I  wrote  the  editorials 
of  this  paper,  I'd  say  something."  He  subsided  into 
inarticulate  growls  behind  the  paper,  and  everything 
was  quiet.  Then  I  heard  a  sniffle,  distinctly.  I  looked 
up.  Edith  was  crying — pouring  cream  into  a  coffee 

220 


BACK  TO  BELLWOOD  221 

cup,  and  feeling  blindly  for  the  sugar,  with  her  pretty 
face  twisted  and  her  pretty  eyes  obscured.  In  a  sec- 
ond I  was  up,  had  crumpled  the  newspapers,  including 
Fred's,  into  a  ball,  and  had  lifted  him  bodily  out  of  his 
chair. 

"When  I  am  married,"  I  said  fiercely,  jerking  him 
around  to  Edith  and  pushing  him  into  a  chair  beside 
her,  "if  I  ever  read  the  paper  at  breakfast  when  my 
wife  is  bursting  for  conversation,  may  I  have  some 
good  and  faithful  friend  who  will  bring  me  back  to  a 
sense  of  my  duty."  I  drew  a  chair  to  Edith's  other 
side.  "Now,  let's  talk,"  I  said. 

She  wiped  her  eyes  shamelessly  with  her  table  nap- 
kin. "There  isn't  a  soul  in  this  house  I  can  talk  to," 
she  wailed.  "All  kinds  of  awful  things  happening — 
and  we  had  to  send  for  coffee  this  morning,  Jack. 
You  must  have  used  four  pounds  last  night — and  no- 
body will  tell  me  a  thing.  There's  no  use  asking  Mar- 
gery— she's  sick  at  her  stomach  from  the  chloroform 
— and  Ellen  never  talks  except  about  herself,  and  she's 
horribly — uninteresting.  And  Fred  and  you  make  a 
ba — barricade  out  of  newspapers,  and  fire  'yes'  at  me 
when  you  mean  'no.'  " 

"I  put  the  coffee  back  where  I  got  it,  Edith,"  I  pro- 
tested stoutly.  "I  know  we're  barbarians,  but  I'll 
swear  to  that."  And  then  I  stopped,  for  I  had  a 
sudden  recollection  of  going  up-stairs  with  something 
fat  and  tinny  in  my  arms,  of  finding  it  in  my  way, 
and  of  hastily  thrusting  it  into  the  boys'  boot  closet 
under  the  nursery  stair. 


222     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

Fred  had  said  nothing.  He  had  taken  her  hand  and 
was  patting  it  gently,  the  while  his  eyes  sought  the 
head-lines  on  the  wad  of  morning  paper. 

"You  burned  that  blue  rug,"  she  said  to  me  discon- 
solately, with  a  threat  of  fresh  tears.  "It  took  me  ages 
to  find  the  right  shade  of  blue." 

"I  will  buy  you  that  Shirvan  you  wanted,"  I  has- 
tened to  assure  her. 

"Yes,  to  take  away  when  you  get  married."  There 
is  a  hint  of  the  shrew  in  all  good  women. 

"I  will  buy  the  Shirvan  and  not  get  married." 
Here,  I  regret  to  say,  Edith  suddenly  laughed.     She 
threw  her  head  back  and  jeered  at  me. 

"You!"  she  chortled,  and  pointed  one  slim  finger 
at  me  mockingly.  "You,  who  are  so  mad  about  one 
girl  that  you  love  all  women  for  her  sake !  You,  who 
go  white  instead  of  red  when  she  comes  into  the  room ! 
You,  who  have  let  your  practice  go  to  the  dogs  to  be 
near  her,  and  then  never  speak  to  her  when  she's 
around,  but  sit  with  your  mouth  open  like  a  puppy  beg- 
ging for  candy,  ready  to  snap  up  every  word  she  throws 
you  and  wiggle  with  joy!" 
I  was  terrified. 

"Honestly,  Edith,  do  I  do  that?"  I  gasped.  But 
she  did  not  answer;  she  only  leaned  over  and  kissed 
Fred. 

"Women  like  men  to  be  awful  fools  about  them," 
she  said.  "That's  why  I'm  so  crazy  about  Freddie." 
He  writhed. 


BACK  TO  BELLWOOD  223 

"If  I  tell  you  something  nice,  Jack,  will  you  make 
it  a  room-size  rug?" 

"Room  size  it  is." 

"Then — Margery's  engagement  ring  was  stolen  last 
night  and  when  I  commiserated  her  she  said — dear  me,, 
the  lamp's  out  and  the  coffee  is  cold!" 

"Remarkable  speech,  under  the  circumstances,"  said 
Fred. 

Edith  rang  the  bell  and  seemed  to  be  thinking. 
"Perhaps  we'd  better  make  it  four  small  rugs  instead 
of  one  large  one,"  she  said. 

"Not  a  rug  until  you  have  told  me  what  Margery 
said,"  firmly. 

"Oh,  that!  Why,  she  said  it  really  didn't  matter 
about  the  ring.  She  had  never  cared  much  about  it 
anyway." 

"But  that's  only  a  matter  of  taste,"  I  protested,  some- 
what disappointed.  But  Edith  got  up  and  patted  me 
on  the  top  of  my  head. 

"Silly,"  she  said.  "If  the  right  man  came  along 
and  gave  her  a  rubber  teething  ring,  she'd  be  crazy 
about  it  for  his  sake." 

"Edith !"  Fred  said,  shocked.     But  Edith  had  gone. 

She  took  me  up-stairs  before  I  left  for  the  office  to 
measure  for  the  Shirvan,  Edith  being  a  person  who 
believes  in  obtaining  a  thing  while  the  desire  for  it  is 
in  its  first  bloom.  Across  the  hall  Fred  was  talking  to 
Margery  through  the  transom. 

"Mustard  leaves  are  mighty  helpful,"  he  was  say- 


224    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

ing.  "I  always  take  'em  on  shipboard.  And  cheer 
up :  land's  in  sight." 

I  would  have  given  much  for  Fred's  ease  of  manner 
when,  a  few  minutes  later,  Edith  having  decided  on 
four  Shirvans  and  a  hall  runner,  she  took  me  to  the 
door  of  Margery's  room. 

She  was  lying  very  still  and  pale  in  the  center  of  the 
white  bed,  and  she  tried  bravely  to  smile  at  us. 

"I  hope  you  are  better,"  I  said.  "Don't  let  Edith 
convince  you  that  my  coffee  has  poisoned  you." 

She  said  she  was  a  little  better,  and  that  she  didn't 
know  she  had  had  any  coffee.  That  was  the  extent 
of  the  conversation.  I,  who  have  a  local  reputation 
of  a  sort  before  a  jury,  I  could  not  think  of  another 
word  to  say.  I  stood  there  for  a  minute  uneasily,  with 
Edith  poking  me  with  her  finger  to  go  inside  the  door 
and  speak  and  act  like  an  intelligent  human  being. 
But  I  only  muttered  something  about  a  busy  day  before 
me  and  fled.  It  was  a  singular  thing,  but  as  I  stood 
in  the  doorway,  I  had  a  vivid  mental  picture  of  Edith's 
description  of  me,  sitting  up  puppy-like  to  beg  for  a 
kind  word,  and  wiggling  with  delight  when  I  got  it. 
If  I  slunk  into  my  office  that  morning  like  a  dog 
scourged  to  his  kennel,  Edith  was  responsible. 

At  the  office  I  found  a  note  from  Miss  Letitia,  and 
after  a  glance  at  it  I  looked  for  the  first  train,  in  my 
railroad  schedule.  The  note  was  brief;  unlike  the 
similar  epistle  I  had  received  from  Miss  Jane  the  day 
she  disappeared,  this  one  was  very  formal. 


BACK  TO  BELL  WOOD  225 

"MR.  JOHN  KNOX: 

"DEAR  SIR — Kindly  oblige  me  by  coming  to  see  me 
as  soon  as  you  get  this.  Some  things  have  happened, 
not  that  I  think  they  are  worth  a  row  of  pins,  but  Hepsi- 
bah  is  an  old  fool,  and  she  says  she  did  not  put  the  note 
in  the  milk  bottle. 

"Yours  very  respectfully, 

"LETITIA  ANN  MAITLAND." 

I  had  an  appointment  with  Burton  for  the  after- 
noon, to  take  Wardrop,  if  we  could  get  him  on  some 
pretext,  to  Doctor  Anderson.  That  day,  also,  I  had 
two  cases  on  the  trial  list.  I  got  Humphreys,  across 
the  hall,  to  take  them  over,  and  evading  Hawes*  re- 
sentful blink,  I  went  on  my  way  to  Bellwood.  It 
was  nine  days  since  Miss  Jane  had  disappeared.  On 
my  way  out  in  the  train  I  jotted  down  the  things  that 
had  happened  in  that  time:  Allan  Fleming  had  died 
and  been  buried;  the  Borough  Bank  had  failed;  some 
one  had  got  into  the  Fleming  house  and  gone  through 
the  papers  there ;  Clarkson  had  killed  himsdf ;  we  had 
found  that  Wardrop  had  sold  the  pearls;  the  leather 
bag  had  been  returned;  Fleming's  second  wife  had 
appeared,  and  some  one  had  broken  into  my  own  house 
and,  intentionally  or  not,  had  almost  sent  Margery 
Fleming  o.ver  the  borderland. 

It  seemed  to  me  everything  pointed  in  one  direction, 
to  a  malignity  against  Fleming  that  extended  itself  to 
the  daughter.  I  thought  of  what  the  woman  who 
claimed  to  be  the  dead  man's  second  wife  had  said  the 


226     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

day  before.  If  the  staircase  she  had  spoken  of  opened 
into  the  room  where  Fleming  was  shot,  and  if  Schwartz 
was  in  town  at  the  time,  then,  in  view  of  her  story 
that  he  had  already  tried  dnce  to  kill  him,  the  likeli- 
hood was  that  Schwartz  was  at  least  implicated. 

If  Wardrop  knew  that,  why  had  he  not  denounced 
him  ?  Was  I  to  believe  that,  after  all  the  mystery,  the 
number  eleven  twenty-two  was  to  resolve  itself  into 
the  number  of  a  house?  Would  it  be  typical  of  the 
Schwartz  I  knew  to  pin  bits  of  paper  to  a  man's  pillow  ? 
On  the  other  hand,  if  he  had  reason  to  think  that  Flem- 
ing had  papers  that  would  incriminate  him,  it  would  be 
like  Schwartz  to  hire  some  one  to  search  for  them, 
and  he  would  be  equal  to  having  Wardrop  robbed  of 
the  money  he  was  taking  to  Fleming. 

Granting  that  Schwartz  had  killed  Fleming — then 
who  was  the  woman  with  Wardrop  the  night  he  was 
robbed?  Why  did  he  take  the  pearls  and  sell  them? 
How  did  the  number  eleven  twenty-two  come  into  Aunt 
Jane's  possession?  How  did  the  leather  get  to  Bos- 
ton? Who  had  chloroformed  Margery?  Who  had 
been  using  the  Fleming  house  while  it  was  closed? 
Most  important  of  all  now — where  was  Aunt  Jane? 

The  house  at  Bellwood  looked  almost  cheerful  in 
the  May  sunshine,  as  I  went  up  the  walk.  Nothing 
ever  changed  the  straight  folds  of  the  old-fashioned 
lace  curtains ;  no  dog  ever  tracked  the  porch,  or  buried 
sacrilegious  and  odorous  bones  on  the  level  lawn;  the 
birds  were  nesting  in  the  trees,  well  above  the  reach  of 
Robert's  ladder,  but  they  were  decorous,  well-behaved, 


BACK  TO  BELLWOOD  227 

birds,  whose  prim  courting  never  partook  of  the  ex- 
uberance of  their  neighbors',  bursting  their  little  throats 
in  an  elm  above  the  baby  perambulator  in  the  next  yard. 

When  Bella  had  let  me  in,  and  I  stood  once  more  in 
the  straight  hall,  with  the  green  rep  chairs  and  the 
Japanese  umbrella  stand,  involuntarily  I  listened  for 
the  tap  of  Miss  Jane's  small  feet  on  the  stairs.  In- 
stead came  Bella's  heavy  tread,  and  a  request  for  Miss 
Letitia  that  I  go  up-stairs. 

The  old  lady  was  sitting  by  a  window  of  her  bed- 
room, in  a  chintz  upholstered  chair.  She  did  not  ap- 
pear to  be  feeble ;  the  only  change  I  noticed  was  a  re- 
laxation in  the  severe  tidiness  of  her  dress.  I  guessed 
that  Miss  Jane's  exquisite  neatness  had  been  responsible 
for  the  white  ruchings,  the  soft  caps,  and  the  spotless 
shoulder  shawls  which  had  made  lovely  their  latter 
years. 

"You've  taken  your  own  time  about  coming,  haven't 
you?"  Miss  Letitia  asked  sourly.  "If  it  hadn't  been 
for  that  cousin  oi  yours  you  sent  here,  Burton,  I'd 
have  been  driven,  to  sending  for  Amelia  Miles,  and 
when  I  send  for  Amelia  Miles  for  company,  I'm  in  a 
bad  way." 

"I  have  had  a  great  deal  to  attend  to,"  I  said  as  loud 
as  I  could.  "I  came  some  days  ago  to  tell  you  Mr. 
Fleming  was  dead;  after  that  we  had  to  bury  him, 
and  close  the  house.  It's  been  very  sad — " 

"Did  he  leave  anything?"  she  interrupted.  "It  isn't 
sad  at  all  unless  .he  didn't  leave  anything." 

"He  left  very  little.     The  house,  perhaps,  and  I  re- 


228    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

gret  to  have  to  tell  you  that  a  woman  came  to  me  yes- 
terday who  claims  to  be  a  second  wife." 

She  took  off  her  glasses,  wiped  them  and  put  them 
on  again. 

"Then,"  she  said  with  a  snap,  "there's  one  other 
woman  in  the  world  as  big  a  fool  as  my  sister  Martha 
was.  I  didn't  know  there  were  two  of  'em.  What 
do  you  hear  about  Jane?" 

"The  last  time  I  was  here,"  I  shouted,  "you  thought 
she  was  dead;  have  you  changed  your  mind?" 

"The  last  time  you  were  here,"  she  said  with  dig- 
nity, "I  thought  a  good  many  things  that  were  wrong. 
I  thought  I  had  lost  some  of  the  pearls,  but  I  hadn't." 

"What!"  I  exclaimed  incredulously.  She  put  her 
hands  on  the  arms  of  her  chair,  and  leaning  forward, 
shot  the  words  at  me  viciously. 

"I — said — I — had — lost — some — of — the — pearls — 
well— I— haven't." 

She  didn't  expect  me  to  believe  her,  any  more  than 
she  believed  it  herself.  But  why  on  earth  she  had 
changed  her  attitude  about  the  pearls  was  beyond  me. 
I  merely  nodded  comprehensively. 

"Very  well,"  I  said,  "I'm  glad  to  know  it  was  a  mis- 
take. Now,  the  next  thing  is  to  find  Miss  Jane." 

"We  have  found  her,"  she  said  tartly.  "That's 
what  I  sent  for  you  about." 

"Found  her !"  This  time  I  did  get  out  of  my  chair. 
"What  on  earth  do  you  mean,  Miss  Letitia?  Why, 
we've  been  scouring  the  country  for  her." 

She  opened  a  religious  monthly  on  the  table  beside 


BACK  TO  BELLWOOD  229 

her,  and  took  out  a  folded  paper.  I  had  to  control 
my  impatience  while  she  changed  her  glasses  and  read 
it  slowly. 

"Heppie  found  it  on  the  back  porch,  under  a  milk 
bottle,"  she  prefaced.  Then  she  read  it  to  me.  I  do 
not  remember  the  wording,  and  Miss  Letitia  refused, 
both  then  and  later,  to  let  it  out  of  her  hands.  As 
a  result,  unlike  the  other  manuscripts  in  the  case,  I 
have  not  even  a  copy.  The  substance,  shorn  of  its 
bad  spelling  and  grammar,  was  this : 

The  writer  knew  where  Miss  Jane  was;  the  infer- 
ence being  that  he  was  responsible.  She  was  well 
and  happy,  but  she  had  happened  to  read  a  newspaper 
with  an  account  of  her  disappearance,  and  it  had  wor- 
ried her.  The  payment  of  the  small  sum  of  five  thou- 
sand dollars  would  send  her  back  as  well  as  the  day  she 
left.  The  amount,  left  in  a  tin  can' on  the  base  of  the 
Maitland  shaft  in  the  cemetery,  would  bring  the  mis- 
sing lady  back  within  twenty-four  hours.  On  the 
contrary,  if  the  recipient  of  the  letter  notified  the  police, 
it  would  go  hard  with  Miss  Jane. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it?"  she  asked,  looking  at 
me  over  her  glasses.  "If  she  was  fool  enough  to  be 
carried  away  by  a  man  that  spells  cemetery  with  one 
m,  she  deserves  what  she's  got.  And  I  won't  pay  five 
thousand,  anyhow,  it's,  entirely  too  much." 

"It  doesn't  sound  quite  genuine  to  me,"  I  said,  read- 
ing it  over.  "I  should  certainly  not  leave  any  money 
until  we  had  tried  to  find  who  left  this." 

"I'm  not   so  sure  but   what   she'd  better  stay  a 


while  anyhow,"  Miss  Letitia  pursued.  "Now  that  we 
know  she's  living,  I  ain't  so  particular  when  she  gets 
back.  She's  been  notionate  lately  anyhow." 

I  had  been  reading  the  note  again.  "There's  one 
thing  he're  that  makes  me  doubt  the  whole  story,"  I 
said.  "What's  this  about  her  reading  the  papers? 
I  though.t  her  reading  glasses  were  found  in  the 
library." 

Miss  Letitia  snatched  the  paper  from  me  and  read 
it  again. 

"Reading  the  paper!"  she  sniffed.  "You've  got 
more  sense  than  I've  been  giving  you  credit  for, 
Knox.  Her  glasses  are  here  this  minute;  without 
them  she  can't  see  to  scratch  her  nose." 

It  was  a  disappointment  to  me,  although  the  ex- 
planation was  simple  enough.  It  was  surprising  that 
we  had  not  had  more  attempts  to  play  on  our  fears. 
But  the  really  important  thing  bearing  on  Miss  Jane's 
departure  was  when  Heppie  came  into  the  room,  with 
her  apron  turned  up  like  a  pocket  and  her  dust  cap 
pushed  down  over  her  eyes  like  the  slouch  hat  of  a 
bowery  tough. 

When  she  got  to  the  middle  of  the  room  she  stopped 
and  abruptly  dropped  the  corners  of  her  apron.  There 
rolled  out  a  heterogeneous  collection  of  things :  a  white 
muslin  garment  which  proved  to  be  a  nightgown, 
with  long  sleeves  and  high  collar;  a  half-dozen  hair 
curlers — I  knew  those;  Edith  had  been  seen,  in  mid- 
night emergencies,  with  her  hair  twisted  around  just 
such  instruments  of  torture — a  shoe  buttoner;  a  rail- 


BACK  TO  BELL  WOOD  231 

road  map,  and  one  new  and  unworn  black  kid  glove. 

Miss  Letitia  changed  her  glasses  deliberately,  and 
took  a  comprehensive  survey  of  the  things  on  the 
floor. 

"Where  did  you  get  *em?"  she  said,  fixing  Heppie 
with  an  awful  eye. 

"I  found  'em  stuffed  under  the  blankets  in  the  chest 
of  drawers  in  the  attic,"  Heppie  shouted  at  her.  "If 
we'd  washed  blankets  last  week,  as  I  wanted  to — " 

"Shut  up!"  Miss  Letitia  said  shortly,  and  Heppie's 
thin  lips  closed  with  a  snap.  "Now  then,  Knox,  what 
do  you  make  of  that  ?" 

"If  that's  the  nightgown  she  was  wearing  the  night 
she  disappeared,  I  think  it  shows  one  thing  very  clearly, 
Miss  Maitland.  She  was  not  abducted,  and  she  knew 
perfectly  well  what  she  was  about.  None  of  her 
clothes  was  missing,  and  that  threw  us  off  the  track; 
but  look  at  this  new  glove!  She  may  have  had  new 
things  to  put  on  and  left  the  old.  The  map — well, 
she  was  going  somewhere,  with  a  definite  purpose. 
When  we  find  out  what  took  her  away,  we  will  find 
her." 

"Humph!" 

"She  didn't  go  unexpectedly — that  is,  she  was  pre- 
pared for  whatever  it  was." 

"I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it,"  the  old  lady  burst 
out.  "She  didn't  have  a  secret;  she  was  the  kind  that 
couldn't  keep  a  secret.  She  wasn't  responsible,  I  tell 
you ;  she  was  extravagant.  Look  at  that  glove !  And 
she  had  three  pairs  half  worn  in  her  bureau." 


232     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

"Miss  Maitland,"  I  asked  suddenly,  "did  you  ever 
hear  of  eleven  twenty-two?" 

"Eleven  twenty-two  what?" 

"Just  the  number,  eleven  twenty-two,"  I  repeated. 
"Does  it  mean  anything  to  you?  Has  it  any  signifi- 
cance?" 

"I  should  say  it  has,"  she  retorted.  "In  the  last  ten 
years  the  Colored  Orphans'  Home  has  cared  for,  fed, 
clothed,  and  pampered  exactly  eleven  hundred  and 
twenty-two  colored  children,  of  every  condition  of 
shape  and  misshape,  brains  and  no  brains." 

"It  has  no  other  connection?" 

"Eleven  twenty-two?  Twice  eleven  is  twenty-two, 
if  that's  any  help.  No,  I  can't  think  of  anything.  I 
loaned  Allan  Fleming  a  thousand  dollars  once ;  I  guess 
my  mind  was  failing.  It  would  be  about  eleven 
twenty-two  by  this  time." 

Neither  of  which  explanations  sufficed  for  the  lit- 
tle scrap  found  in  Miss  Jane's  room.  What  connection, 
if  any,  had  it  with  her  flight?  Where  was  she  now? 
What  was  eleven  twenty-two?  And  why  did  Miss 
Letitia  deny  that  she  had  lost  the  pearls,  when  I  al- 
ready knew  that  nine  of  the  ten  had  been  sold,  who 
had  bought  them,  and  approximately  how  much  he  had 
paid? 


CHAPTER  XX 

ASSOCIATION  OF  IDEAS 

I  ATE  a  light  lunch  at  Bellwood,  alone,  with  Bella 
to  look  after  me  in  the  dining-room.  She  was 
very  solicitous,  and  when  she  had  brought  my  tea,  I 
thought  she  wanted  to  say  something.  She  stood 
awkwardly  near  the  door,  and  watched  me. 

"You  needn't  wait,  Bella,"  I  said. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but — I  wanted  to  ask  you 
• — is  Miss  Fleming  well?" 

"She  was  not  very  well  this  morning,  but  I  don't 
think  it  is  serious,  Bella,"  I  replied.  She  turned  to 
go,  but  I  fancied  she  hesitated. 

"Oh,  Bella,"  I  called,  as  she  was  going  out,  "I  want 
to  ask  you  something.  The  night  at  the  Fleming  home, 
when  you  and  I  watched  the  house,  didn't  you  hear 
some  person  running  along  the  hall  outside  your  door  ? 
About  two  o'clock,  I  think?" 

She  looked  at  me  stolidly. 

"No,  sir,  I  slept  all  night." 

"That's  strange.  And  you  didn't  hear  me  when 
I  fell  down  the  dumb-waiter  shaft?" 

"Holy  saints!"  she  ejaculated.  "Was  that  where 
you  fell!" 

233 


234     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

She  stopped  herself  abruptly. 

"You  heard  that?"  I  asked  gently,  "and  yet  you 
slept  all  night?  Bella,  there's  a  hitch  somewhere. 
You  didn't  sleep  that  night,  at  all ;  you  told  Miss  Flem- 
ing I  had  been  up  all  night.  How  did  you  know  that? 
If  I  didn't  know  that  you  couldn't  possibly  get  around 
as  fast  as  the — person  in  the  house  that  night,  I  would 
say  you  had  been  in  Mr.  Fleming's  desk,  looking  for — 
let  us  say,  postage  stamps.  May  I  have  another  cup  of 
coffee?" 

She  turned  a  sickly  yellow  white,  and  gathered  up 
my  cup  and  saucer  with  trembling  hands.  When  the 
coffee  finally  came  back  it  was  brought  grumblingly  by 
old  Heppie.  "She  says  she's  turned  her  ankle,"  she 
sniffed.  "Turned  it  on  a  lathe,  like  a  table  leg,  I  should 
say,  from  the  shape  of  it."  Before  I  left  the  dining- 
room  I  put  another  line  in  my  note-book: 

"What  does  Bella  know?" 

I  got  back  to  the  city  somewhat  late  for  my  ap- 
pointment with  Burton.  I  found  Wardrop  waiting 
for  me  at  the  office,  and  if  I  had  been  astonished  at 
the  change  in  him  two  nights  before,  I  was  shocked 
now.  He  seemed  to  have  shrunk  in  his  clothes;  his 
eyeballs  were  bloodshot  from  drinking,  and  his  fair 
hair  had  dropped,  neglected,  over  his  forehead.  He 
was  sitting  in  his  familiar  attitude,  his  elbows  on  his 
knees,  his  chin  on  his  palms. 

He  looked  at  me  with  dull  eyes,  when  I  went  in.  I 
did  not  see  Burton  at  first.  He  was  sitting  on  my 
desk,  holding1  a  flat  can  in  his  hand,  and  digging  out 


ASSOCIATION  OF  IDEAS        235 

with  a  wooden  toothpick  one  sardine  after  another 
and  bolting  them  whole. 

"Your  good  health,"  he  said,  poising  one  in  the 
air,  where  it  threatened  oily  tears  over  the  carpet. 
"As  an  appetite-quencher  and  thirst-producer,  give  me 
the  festive  sardine.  How  lovely  it  would  be  if  we 
could  eat  'em  without  smelling  'em !" 

"Don't  you  do  anything  but  eat?"  Wardrop  asked, 
without  enthusiasm. 

Burton  eyed  him  reproachfully.  "Is  that  what  I 
get  for  doing  without  lunch,  in  order  to  prove  to  you 
that  you  are  not  crazy?"  He  appealed  to  me.  "He 
says  he's  crazy — lost  his  think  works.  Now  I  ask  you, 
Knox,  when  I  go  to  the  trouble  to  find  out  for  him 
that  he's  got  as  many  convolutions  as  anybody,  and 
that  they've  only  got  a  little  convolved,  is  it  fair,  I  ask 
you,  for  him  to  reproach  me  about  my  food  ?" 

"I  didn't  know  you  knew  each  other,"  I  put  in, 
while  Burton  took  another  sardine. 

"He  says  we  do,"  Wardrop  said  wearily;  "says  he 
used  to  knock  me  around  at  college." 

Burton  winked  at  me  solemnly. 

"He  doesn't  remember  me,  but  he  will,"  he  said. 
"It's  his  nerves  that  are  gone,  and  we'll  have  him 
restrung  with  new  wires,  like  an  old  piano,  in  a 
week." 

Wardrop  had  that  after-debauch  suspicion  of  all 
men,  but  I  think  he  grasped  at  me  as  a  dependability. 

"He  wants  me  to  go  to  a  doctor,"  he  said.  "I'm 
not  sick;  it's  only — "  He  was  trying  to  light  a 


236     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

cigarette,  but  the  match  dropped  from  his  shaking 
fingers. 

"Better  see  one,  Wardrop,"  I  urged — and  I  felt  mean 
enough  about  doing  it.  "You  need  something  to  brace 
you  up." 

Burton  gave  him  a  very  small  drink,  for  he  could 
scarcely  stand,  and  we  went  down  in  the  elevator. 
My  contempt  for  the  victim  between  us  was  as  great 
as  my  contempt  for  myself.  That  Wardrop  was  in 
a  bad  position  there  could  be  no  doubt;  there  might 
be  more  men  than  Fleming  who  had  known  about 
the  money  in  the  leather  bag,  and  who  thought  he 
had  taken  it  and  probably  killed  Fleming  to  hide  the 
theft. 

It  seemed  incredible  that  an  innocent  man  would 
collapse  as  he  had  done,  and  yet — at  this  minute  I 
can  name  a  dozen  men  who,  under  the  club  of  public 
disapproval,  have  fallen  into  paresis,  insanity  and 
the  grave.  We  are  all  indifferent  to  our  fellow-men 
until  they  are  against  us. 

Burton  knew  the  specialist  very  well — in  fact,  there 
seemed  to  be  few  people  he  did  not  know.  And  con- 
sidering the  way  he  had  got  hold  of  Miss  Letitia  and 
Wardrop,  it  was  not  surprising.  He  had  evidently  ar- 
ranged with  the  doctor,  for  the  waiting-room  was 
empty  and  we  were  after  hours. 

The  doctor  was  a  large  man,  his  size  emphasized  by 
the  clothes  he  wore,  very  light  in  color,  and  unprofes- 
sional in  cut.  He  was  sandy-haired,  inclined  to  be 
bald,  and  with  shrewd,  light  blue  eyes  behind  his 


ASSOCIATION  OF  IDEAS        237 

glasses.  Not  particularly  impressive,  except  as  to  size, 
on  first  acquaintance ;  a  good  fellow,  with  a  brisk  voice, 
and  an  amazingly  light  tread. 

He  began  by  sending  Wardrop  into  a  sort  of  ex- 
amining room  in  the  rear  of  the  suite  somewhere,  to 
take  off  his  coat  and  collar.  When  he  had  gone  the 
doctor  looked  at  a  slip  of  paper  in  his  hand. 

"I  think  I've  got  it  all  from  Mr.  Burton,"  he  said. 
"Of  course,  Mr.  Knox,  this  is  a  little  out  of  my  line; 
a  nerve  specialist  has  as  much  business  with  psycho- 
therapy as  a  piano  tuner  has  with  musical  technique. 
But  the  idea  is  Munsterburg's,  and  I've  had  some  good 
results.  I'll  give  him  a  short  physical  examination, 
and  when  I  ring  the  bell  one  of  you  may  come  in. 
Are  you  a  newspaper  man,  Mr.  Knox?" 

"An  attorney,"  I  said  briefly. 

"Press  man,  lawyer,  or  doctor,"  Burton  broke  in, 
"we  all  fatten  on  the  other  fellow's  troubles,  don't 
we?" 

"We  don't  fatten  very  much,"  I  corrected.  "We 
nve." 

The  doctor  blinked  behind  his  glasses. 

"I  never  saw  a  lawyer  yet  who  would  admit  he 
was  making  money,"  he  said.  "Look  at  the  way  a 
doctor  grinds  for  a  pittance!  He's  just  as  capable 
as  the  lawyer;  he  works  a  damn  sight  harder,  and 
he  makes  a  tenth  the  income.  A  man  will  pay  his 
lawyer  ten  thousand  dollars  for  keeping  him  out  of 
jail  for  six  months,  and  he'll  kick  like  a  steer  if  his 
doctor  charges  him  a  hundred  to  keep  him  out  of  hell 


for  life!  Which  of  you  will  come  in?  I'm  afraid 
two  would  distract  him." 

"I  guess  it  is  Knox's  butt-in,"  Burton  conceded, 
"but  I  get  it  later,  Doctor;  you  promised." 

The  physical  examination  was  very  brief;  when 
I  was  called  in  Wardrop  was  standing  at  the  window 
looking  down  into  the  street  below,  and  the  doctor 
was  writing  at  his  desk.  Behind  Wardrop's  back  he 
gave  me  the  slip  he  had  written. 

"Test  is  for  association  of  ideas.  Watch  length  of 
time  between  word  I  give  and  his  reply.  I  often  get 
hold  of  facts  forgotten  by  the  patient.  A  wait  before 
the  answering  word  is  given  shows  an  attempt  at  con- 
cealment." 

"Now,  Mr.  Wardrop,"  he  said,  "will  you  sit  here, 
please  ?" 

He  drew  a  chair  to  the  center-table  for  Wardrop, 
and  another,  just  across  for  himself.  I  sat  back  and 
to  one  side  of  the  patient,  where  I  could  see  War- 
drop's  haggard  profile  and  every  movement  of  the 
specialist. 

On  the  table  was  an  electric  instrument  like  a  small 
clock,  and  the  doctor's  first  action  was  to  attach  to  it 
two  wires  with  small,  black  rubber  mouth-pieces. 

"Now,  Mr.  Wardrop,"  he  said,  "we  will  go  on  with 
the  test.  Your  condition  is  fair,  as  I  told  you ;  I  think 
you  can  dismiss  the  idea  of  insanity  without  a  second 
thought,  but  there  is  something  more  than  brain  and 
body  to  be  considered;  in  other  words,  you  have  been 


ASSOCIATION  OF  IDEAS        239 

through  a  storm,  and  some  of  your  nervous  wires  are 
down.  Put  the  mouthpiece  between  your  lips,  please ; 
you  see,  I  do  the  same  with  mine.  And  when  I  give 
you  a  word,  speak  as  quickly  as  possible  the  associa- 
tion it  brings  to  your  mind.  For  instance,  I  say 
'noise.'  Your  first  association  might  be  'street/  'band/ 
'drum/  almost  anything  associated  with  the  word. 
As  quickly  as  possible,  please." 

The  first  few  words  went  simply  enough.  Ward- 
rop's  replies  came  almost  instantly.  To  "light"  he 
replied  "lamp ;"  "touch"  brought  the  response  "hand ;" 
"eat"  brought  "Burton,"  and  both  the  doctor  and  I 
smiled.  Wardrop  was  intensely  serious.  Then — 

"Taxicab,"  said  the  doctor,  and,  after  an  almost 
imperceptible  pause,  "road"  came  the  association.  All 
at  once  I  began  to  see  the  possibilities. 

"Desk."     "Pen." 

"Pipe."     "Smoke." 

"Head."  After  a  perceptible  pause  the  answer 
came  uncertainly.  "Hair."  But  the  association  of 
ideas  would  not  be  denied,  for  in  answer  to  the  next 
word,  which  was  "ice,"  he  gave  "blood,"  evidently 
following  up  the  previous  word  "head." 

I  found  myself  gripping  the  arms  of  my  chair. 
The  dial  on  the  doctor's  clock-like  instrument  was 
measuring  the  interval;  I  could  see  that  now.  The 
doctor  took  a  record  of  every  word  and  its  response., 
^Wardrop's  eyes  were  shifting  nervously. 

"Hot."     "Cold." 

"White."     "Black." 


"Whisky."     "Glass,"  all  in  less  than  a  second. 

"Pearls."     A  little  hesitation,  then  "box." 

"Taxicab"  again.     "Night." 

"Silly."     "Wise." 

"Shot."     After  a  pause,  "revolver." 

"Night."     "Dark." 

"Blood."     "Head." 

"Water."     "Drink." 

"Traveling-bag."  He  brought  out  the  word  "train" 
after  an  evident  struggle,  but  in  answer  to  the  next 
word  "lost,"  instead  of  the  obvious  "found,"  he  said 
"woman."  He  had  not  had  sufficient  mental  agility  to 
get  away  from  the  association  with  "bag."  The 
"woman"  belonged  there. 

"Murder"  brought  "dead,"  but  "shot,"  following 
immediately  after,  brought  "staircase." 

I  think  Wardrop  was  on  his  guard  by  that  time,  but 
the  conscious  effort  to  hide  truths  that  might  be  damag- 
ing made  the  intervals  longer,  from  that  time  on.  Al- 
ready I  felt  that  Allan  Fleming's  widow  had  been  right ; 
he  had  been  shot  from  the  locked  back  staircase.  But 
by  whom  ? 

"Blow"  brought  "chair." 

"Gone."     "Bag"  came  like  a  flash. 

In  quick  succession,  without  pause,  came  the  words — 

"Bank."     "Note." 

"Door."     "Bolt." 

"Money."  "Letters,"  without  any  apparent  con- 
nection. 

.Wardrop  was  going  to  the  bad.     Wkto,  to  tke  next 


ASSOCIATION  OF  IDEAS        241 

word,  "staircase,"  again,  he  said  "scar,"  his  demoraliza- 
tion was  almost  complete.  As  for  me,  the  scene  in, 
Wardrop's  mind  was  already  in  mine — Schwartz,  with 
the  scar  across  his  ugly  forehead,  and  the  bolted  door 
to  the  staircase  open ! 

On  again  with  the  test 

"Flour,"  after  perhaps  two  seconds,  from  the  pre- 
ceding shock,  brought  "bread." 

"Trees."     "Leaves." 

"Night."     "Dark." 

"Gate."  He  stopped  here  so  long,  I  thought  he  was 
not  going  to  answer  at  all.  Presently,  with  an  effort, 
he  said  "wood,"  but  as  before,  the  association  idea 
came  out  in  the  next  word ;  for  "electric  light"  he  gave 
"letters." 

"Attic"  brought  "trunks"  at  once. 

"Closet."  After  perhaps  a  second  and  a  half  came 
"dust,"  showing  what  closet  was  in  his  mind,  and  im- 
mediately after,  to  "match"  he  gave  "pen." 

A  long  list  of  words  followed  which  told  nothing, 
to  my  mind,  although  the  doctor's  eyes  were  snapping 
with  excitement.  Then  "traveling-bag"  again,  and 
instead  of  his  previous  association,  "woman,"  this 
time  he  gave  "yellow."  But,  to  the  next  word, 
"house,"  he  gave  "guest."  It  came  to  me  that  in  his 
mental  processes  I  was  the  guest,  the  substitute  bag 
was  in  his  mind,  as  being  in  my  possession.  Quick  as 
a  flash  the  doctor  followed  up — 

"Guest."     And  Wardrop  fell.     "Letters,"  he  said. 

To  a  great  many  words,  as  I  said  before,  I  could 


242     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

attach  no  significance.     Here  and  there  I  got  a  ray. 

"Elderly"  brought  "black." 

"Warehouse."     "Yard,"  for  no  apparent  reason. 

"Eleven  twenty-two."  "C"  was  the  answer,  given 
without  a  second's  hesitation. 

Eleven  twenty-two  C!  He  gave  no  evidence  of 
having  noticed  any  peculiarity  in  what  he  said ;  I  doubt 
if  he  realized  his  answer.  To  me,  he  gave  the  im- 
pression of  repeating  something  he  had  apparently  for- 
gotten. As  if  a  number  and  its  association  had  been 
subconscious,  and  brought  to  the  surface  by  the  psy- 
chologist; as  if,  for  instance,  some  one  prompted  a — b, 
and  the  corollary  "c"  came  without  summoning. 

The  psychologist  took  the  small  mouthpiece  from 
his  lips,  and  motioned  Wardrop  to  do  the  same.  The 
test  was  over. 

"I  don't  call  that  bad  condition,  Mr. — Wardrop," 
the  doctor  said.  "You  are  nervous,  and  you  need  a 
little  more  care  in  your  habits.  You  want  to  exer- 
cise, regularly,  and  you  will  have  to  cut  out  every- 
thing in  the  way  of  stimulants  for  a  while.  Oh,  yes, 
a  couple  of  drinks  a  day  at  first,  then  one  a  day,  and 
then  none.  And  you  are  to  stop  worrying — when 
trouble  comes  round,  and  stares  at  you,  don't  ask  it  in 
to  have  a  drink.  Take  it  out  in  the  air  and  kill  it; 
oxygen  is  as  fatal  to  anxiety  as  it  is  to  tuberculosis." 

"How  would  Bellwood  do?"  I  asked.  "Or  should 
it  be  the  country  ?" 

"Bellwood,  of  course,"  the  doctor  responded  heartily. 
"Ten  miles  a  day,  four  cigarettes,  and  three  meals- — * 


ASSOCIATION  OF  IDEAS        243 

which  is  more  than  you  have  been  taking,  Mr.  War- 
drop,  by  two." 

I  put  him  on  the  train  for  Bellwood  myself,  and  late 
that  afternoon  the  three  of  us — the  doctor,  Burton  and 
myself — met  in  my  office  and  went  over  the  doctor's 
record. 

"When  the  answer  comes  in  four-fifths  of  a  second/* 
he  said,  before  we  began,  "it  is  hardly  worth  comment. 
There  is  no  time  in  such  an  interval  for  any  mental 
reservation.  Only  those  words  that  showed  noticeable 
hesitation  need  be  considered." 

We  worked  until  almost  seven.  At  the  end  of  that 
time  the  doctor  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  thrust 
his  hands  deep  in  his  trousers  pockets. 

"I  got  the  story  from  Burton,"  he  said,  after  a  deep 
breath.  "I  had  no  conclusion  formed,  and  of  course 
I  am  not  a  detective.  Things  looked  black  for  Mr. 
Wardrop,  in  view  of  the  money  lost,  the  quarrel  with 
Fleming  that  morning  at  the  White  Cat,  and  the  cir- 
cumstance of  his  leaving  the  club  and  hunting  a  doc- 
tor outside,  instead  of  raising  the  alarm.  Still,  no  two 
men  ever  act  alike  in  an  emergency.  Psychology  is  as 
exact  a  science  as  mathematics;  it  gets  information 
from  the  source,  and  a  man  can  not  lie  in  four-fifths 
of  a  second.  'Head,'  you  noticed,  brought  'hair'  in  a 
second  and  three  quarters,  and  the  next  word,  'ice,' 
brought  the  'blood'  that  he  had  held  back  before.  That 
doesn't  show  anything.  He  tried  to  avoid  what  was 
horrible  to  him. 

"But  I  gave  him  'traveling-bag;'  after  a  pause,  he 


244     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

responded  with  'train.'  The  next  word,  'lost/  showed 
what  was  in  his  mind ;  instead  of  'found/  he  said  'wo- 
man/ Now  then,  I  believe  he  was  either  robbed  by  a 
woman,  or  he  thinks  he  was.  After  all,  we  can  only 
get  what  he  believes  himself. 

"  'Money — letters/ — another  slip. 

"  'Shot — staircase' — where  are  the  stairs  at  the 
White  Cat?" 

"I  learned  yesterday  of  a  back  staircase  that  leads 
into  one  of  the  upper  rooms,"  I  said.  "It  opens  on 
a  side  entrance,  and  is  used  in  emergency." 

The  doctor  smiled  confidently. 

"We  look  there  for  our  criminal,"  he  said.  "Noth- 
ing hides  from  the  chronoscope.  Now  then,  'staircase 
• — scar/  Isn't  that  significant?  The  association  is 
clear:  a  scar  that  is  vivid  enough,  disfiguring  enough, 
to  be  the  first  thing  that  enters  his  mind." 

"Schwartz !"  Burton  said  with  awe.  "Doctor,  what 
on  earth  does  'eleven  twenty-two  C'  mean  ?" 

"I  think  that  is  up  to  you,  gentlemen.  The  C  be- 
longs there,  without  doubt.  Briefly,  looking  over  these 
slips,  I  make  it  something  like  this :  Wardrop  thinks  a 
woman  took  his  traveling-bag.  Three  times  he  gave 
the  word  'letters/  in  response  to  'gate/  'guest'  and 
'money/  Did  he  have  a  guest  at  the  time  all  this  hap- 
pened at  Bell  wood?" 

"I  was  a  guest  in  the  house  at  the  time." 

"Did  you  offer  him  money  for  letters?/' 

"No." 

"Did  he  gire  you  any  letters  fc>  Keep  for  him?" 


ASSOCIATION  OF  IDEAS        245 

"He  gave  me  the  bag  that  was  substituted  for  his." 

"Locked?" 

"Yes.  By  Jove,  I  wonder  if  there  is  anything  in  it? 
I  have  reason  to  know  that  he  came  into  my  room  that 
night  at  least  once  after  I  went  asleep." 

"I  think  it  very  likely,"  he  said  dryly.  "One  thing 
we  have  not  touched  on,  and  I  beliere  Mr.  Wardrop 
knows  nothing  of  it.  That  is,  the  disappearance  of  the 
old  lady.  There  is  a  psychological  study  for  youl 
My  conclusion?  Well,  I  should  say  that  Mr.  War- 
drop  is  not  guilty  of  the  murder.  He  knows,  or  thinks 
he  knows,  who  is.  He  has  a  theory  of  his  own,  about 
some  one  with  a  scar:  it  may  be  only  a  theory.  He 
does  not  necessarily  know,  but  he  hopes.  He  is  in  a 
state  of  abject  fear.  Also,  he  is  hiding  something 
concerning  letters,  and  from  the  word  'money'  in  that 
connection,  I  beliere  he  either  sold  or  bought  some 
damaging  papers.  He  is  not  a  criminal,  but  he  is  what 
is  almost  worse." 

The  doctor  rose  and  picked  up  his  hat.  "He  is  a 
weakling,"  he  said,  from  the  doorway. 

Burton  looked  at  his  watch.  "By  George !"  he  said. 
"Seven-twenty,  and  I've  had  nothing  since  lunch  but 
a  box  of  sardines.  I'm  off  to  chase  the  festive  mutton 
chop.  Oh,  by  the  way,  Knox,  where  is  that  locked 
bag?" 

"In  my  office  safe." 

"I'll  drop  around  in  the  morning  and  assist  you  to 
compound  a  felony,"  he  s?id  easily.  But  as  it  hap- 
pened, he  did  mot 


CHAPTER  XXI 

. 

A  PROSCENIUM  BOX 

I  WAS  very  late  for  dinner.  Fred  and  Edith  were 
getting  ready  for  a  concert,  and  the  two  semi-in- 
valids were  playing  pinochle  in  Fred's  den.  Neither 
one  looked  much  the  worse  for  her  previous  night's 
experience ;  Mrs.  Butler  was  always  pale,  and  Margery 
had  been  sq  since  her  father's  death. 

The  game  was  over  when  I  went  into  the  den.  As 
usual,  Mrs.  Butler  left  the  room  almost  immediately, 
and  went  to  the  piano  across  the  hall.  I  had  grown  to 
accept  her  avoidance  of  me  without  question.  Fred 
said  it  was  because  my  overwhelming  vitality  oppressed 
her.  Personally,  I  think  it  was  because  the  neuras- 
thenic type  of  woman  is  repulsive  to  me.  No  doubt 
Mrs.  Butler  deserved  sympathy,  but  her  open  demand 
for  it  found  me  cold  and  unresponsive. 

I  told  Margery  briefly  of  my  visit  to  Bellwood  that 
morning.  She  was  as  puzzled  as  I  was  about  the 
things  Heppie  had  found  in  the  chest.  She  was  re- 
lieved, too. 

"I  am  just  as  sure,  now,  that  she  is  living,  as  I  was 
a  week  ago  that  she  was  dead,"  she  said,  leaning  back 
in  her  big  chair.  "But  whit  terrible  thing  took  her 
away?  Unless — " 

246 


A  PROSCENIUM  BOX  247 

"Unless  what?" 

"She  had  loaned  my  father  a  great  deal  of  money," 
Margery  said,  with  heightened  color.  "She  had  not 
dared  to  tell  Aunt  Letitia,  and  the  money  was  to  be 
returned  before  she  found  it  out.  Then — things  went 
wrong  with  the  Borough  Bank,  and — the  money  did 
not  come  back.  If  you  know  Aunt  Jane,  and  how 
afraid  she  is  of  Aunt  Letitia,  you  will  understand  how 
terrible  it  was  for  her.  I  have  wondered  if  she  would 
go — to  Plattsburg,  and  try  to  find  father  there." 

"The  Eagle  man  is  working  on  that  theory  now," 
I  replied.  "Margery,  if  there  was  a  letter  'C  added 
to  eleven  twenty-two,  would  you  know  what  it 
meant?" 

She  shook  her  head  in  the  negative. 

"Will  you  answer  two  more  questions?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  if  I  can." 

"Do  you  know  why  you  were  chloroformed  last 
night,  and  who  did  it  ?" 

"I  think  I  know  who  did  it,  but  I  don't  understand. 
I  have  been  trying  all  day  to  think  it  out.  I'm  afraid 
to  go  to  sleep  to-night." 

"You  need  not  be,"  I  assured  her.  "If  necessary, 
we  will  have  the  city  police  in  a  ring  around  the  house. 
If  you  know  and  don't  tell,  Margery,  you  are  running 
a  risk,  and  more  than  that,  you  are  protecting  a  person 
who  ought  to  be  in  jail." 

"I'm  not  sure,"  she  persisted.  "Don't  ask  me  about 
it,  please." 

"What  does  Mrs.  Butler  say?" 


248    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

"Just  what  she  said  this  morning.  And  she  says 
valuable  papers  were  taken  from  under  her  pillow. 
She  was  very  ill — hysterical,  all  afternoon." 

The  gloom  and  smouldering  fire  of  the  Sonata  Apas- 
sionata  came  to  us  from  across  the  hall.  I  leaned  over 
and  took  Margery's  small  hand  between  my  two  big 
ones. 

"Why  don't  you  tell  me?"  I  urged.  "Or— you 
needn't  tell  me,  I  know  what  you  think.  But  there 
isn't  any  motive  that  I  can  see,  and  why  would  she 
chloroform  you?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Margery  shuddered.  "Sometimes 
— I  wonder — do  you  think  she  is  altogether  sane?" 

The  music  ended  with  the  crash  of  a  minor  chord. 
Fred  and  Edith  came  down  the  stairs,  and  the  next 
moment  we  were  all  together,  and  the  chance  for  a 
quiet  conversation  was  gone.  At  the  door  Fred  turned 
and  came  back. 

"Watch  the  house,"  he  said.  "And  by  the  way,  I 
guess" — he  lowered  his  voice — "the  lady's  story  was 
probably  straight.  I  looked  around  again  this  after- 
noon, and  there  are  fresh  scratches  on  the  porch  roof 
under  her  window.  It  looks  queer,  doesn't  it  ?" 

It  was  a  relief  to  know  that,  after  all,  Mrs.  Butler 
was  an  enemy  and  a  dangerous  person  to  nobody  but 
herself.  She  retired  to  her  room  almost  as  soon  as 
Fred  and  Edith  had  gone.  I  was  wondering  whether 
or  not  to  tell  Margery  about  the  experiment  that  after- 
noon; debating  how  to  ask  her  what  letters  she  had 
got  from  the  postmaster  at  Bellwood  addressed  to  Miss 


A  PROSCENIUM  BOX  249 

Jane,  and  what  she  knew  of  Bella.  At  the  same  time 
— bear  with  me,  oh  masculine  reader,  the  gentle  reader 
will,  for  she  cares  a  great  deal  more  for  the  love  story 
than  for  all  the  crime  and  mystery  put  together — bear 
with  me,  I  say,  if  I  hold  back  the  account  of  the  ter- 
rible events  that  came  that  night,  to  tell  how  beautiful 
Margery  looked  as  the  lamplight  fell  on  her  brown 
hair  and  pure  profile,  and  how  the  impulse  came  over 
me  to  kiss  her  as  she  sat  there ;  and  how  I  didn't,  after 
all — poor  gentle  reader! — and  only  stooped  over  and 
kissed  the  pink  palm  of  her  hand. 

She  didn't  mind  it;  speaking  as  nearly  as  possible 
from  an  impersonal  standpoint,  I  doubt  if  she  was  even 
surprised.  You  see,  the  ring  was  gone  and — it  had 
only  been  an  engagement  ring  anyhow,  and  every- 
body knows  how  binding  they  are ! 

And  then  an  angel  with  a  burning  sword  came  and 
scourged  me  out  of  my  Eden.  And  the  angel  was 
Burton,  and  the  sword  was  a  dripping-  umbrella. 

"I  hate  to  take  you  out,"  he  said.  "The  bottom's 
dropped  out  of  the  sky ;  but  I  want  you  to  make  a  little 
experiment  with  me."  He  caught  sight  of  Margery- 
through  the  portieres,  and  the  imp  of  mischief  in  him 
prompted  his  next  speech.  "She  said  she  must  see 
you,"  he  said,  very  distinctly,  and  leered  at  me. 

"Don't  be  an  ass,"  I  said  angrily.  "I  don't  know 
that  I  care  to  go  out  to-night." 

He  changed  his  manner  then. 

"Let's  go  and  take  a  look  at  the  staircase  you  fel- 
lows have  been  talking  about,"  he  said.  "I  don't  be- 


250    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

lieve  there  is  a  staircase  there,  except  the  main  one. 
I  have  hounded  every  politician  in  the  city  into  or  out 
of  that  joint,  and  I  have  never  heard  of  it" 

I  felt  some  hesitation  about  leaving  the  house — and 
Margery — after  the  events  of  the  previous  night.  But 
Margery  had  caught  enough  of  the  conversation  to  be 
anxious  to  have  me  to  go,  and  when  I  went  in  to  con- 
sult her  she  laughed  at  my  fears. 

"Lightning  never  strikes  twice  in  the  same  place," 
she  said  bravely.  "I  will  ask  Katie  to  come  down 
with  me  if  I  am  nervous,  and  I  shall  wait  up  for  the 
family." 

I  went  without  enthusiasm.  Margery's  departure 
had  been  delayed  for  a  day  only,  and  I  had  counted  on 
the  evening  with  her.  In  fact,  I  had  sent  the  con- 
cert tickets  to  Edith  with  an  eye  single  to  that  idea. 
But  Burton's  plan  was  right.  It  was,  in  view  of  what 
we  knew,  to  go  over  the  ground  at  the  White  Cat 
again,  and  Saturday  night,  with  the  place  full  of  men, 
would  be  a  good  time  to  look  around,  unnoticed. 

"I  don't  hang  so  much  to  this  staircase  idea,"  Bur- 
ton said,  "and  I  have  a  good  reason  for  it.  I  think 
we  will  find  it  is  the  warehouse,  yet." 

"You  can  depend  on  it,  Burton,"  I  maintained,  "that 
the  staircase  is  the  place  to  look.  If  you  had  seen 
Wardrop's  face  to-day,  and  his  agony  of  mind  when 
he  knew  he  had  associated  'staircase'  with  'shot,'  you 
would  think  just  as  I  do.  A  man  like  Schwartz,  who 
knew  the  ropes,  could  go  quietly  up  the  stairs,  unbolt 
the  door  into  the  room,  shoot  Fleming  and  get  out. 


A  PROSCENIUM  BOX  251 

Wardrop  suspects  Schwartz,  and  he's  afraid  of  him. 
If  he  opened  the  door  just  in  time  to  see  Schwartz, 
we  will  say,  backing  out  the  door  and  going  down  the 
stairs,  or  to  see  the  door  closing  and  suspect  who  had 
just  gone,  we  would  have  the  whole  situation,  as  I  see 
it,  including  the  two  motives  of  deadly  hate  and 
jealousy." 

"Suppose  the  stairs  open  into  the  back  of  the  room? 
He  was  sitting  facing  the  window.  Do  you  think 
Schwartz  would  go  in,  walk  around  the  table  and  shoot 
him  from  in  front?  Pooh!  Fudge!" 

"He  had  a  neck,"  I  retorted.  "I  suppose  he  might 
have  turned  his  head  to  look  around." 

We  had  been  walking  through  the  rain.  The  White 
Cat,  as  far  off  as  the  poles  socially,  was  only  a  half- 
dozen  blocks  actually  from  the  best  residence  portion 
of  the  city.  At  the  corner  of  the  warehouse,  Burton 
stopped  and  looked  up  at  it. 

"I  always  get  mad  when  I  look  at  this  building," 
he  said.  "My  great  grandfather  had  a  truck  garden 
on  this  exact  spot  seventy  years  ago,  and  the  old  idiot 
sold  out  for  three  hundred  dollars  and  a  pair  of  mules ! 
How  do  you  get  in  ?" 

"What  are  you  going  in  for?"  I  asked 

"I  was  wondering  if  I  had  a  grudge — I  have,  for 
that  matter — against  the  mayor,  and  I  wanted  to  shoot 
him,  how  I  would  go  about  it.  I  think  I  should  find 
a  point  of  vantage,  like  an  overlooking  window  in  an 
empty  building  like  this,  and  I  would  wait  for  a  muggy 
night,  also  like  this,  when  the  windows  were  up  and 


252    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

the  lights  going.  I  could  pot  him  with  a  thirty-eight 
at  a  dozen  yards,  with  my  eyes  crossed." 

We  had  stopped  near  the  arched  gate  where  I  had 
stood  and  waited  for  Hunter,  a  week  before.  Sud- 
denly Burton  darted  away  from  me  and  tried  the  gate. 
It  opened  easily,  and  I  heard  him  splashing  through  a 
puddle  in  the  gloomy  yard. 

"Come  in,"  he  called  softly.     "The  water's  fine." 

The  gate  swung  to  behind  me,  and  I  could  not  see 
six  inches  from  my  nose.  Burton  caught  my  elbow 
and  steered  me,  by  touching  the  fence,  toward  the 
building. 

"If  it  isn't  locked  too  tight,"  he  was  saying,  "we  can 
get  in,  perhaps  through  a  window,  and  get  upstairs. 
From  there  we  ought  to  be  able  to  see  down  into  the 
club.  What  the  devil's  that?" 

It  was  a  rat,  I  think,  and  it  scrambled  away  among 
the  loose  boards  in  a  frenzy  of  excitement.  Burton 
struck  a  match ;  it  burned  faintly  in  the  dampness,  and 
in  a  moment  went  out,  having  shown  us  only  the  ap- 
proximate location  of  the  heavy,  arched  double  doors. 
A  second  match  showed  us  a  bar  and  a  rusty  padlock ; 
there  was  no  entrance  to  be  gained  in  that  way. 

The  windows  were  of  the  eight-panel  variety,  and 
in  better  repair  than  the  ones  on  the  upper  floors.  By 
good  luck,  we  found  one  unlocked  and  not  entirely 
closed;  it  shrieked  hideously  as  we  pried  it  up,  but  an 
opportune  clap  of  thunder  covered  the  sound. 

By  this  time  I  was  ready  for  anything  that  came; 


A  PROSCENIUM  BOX  258 

I  was  wet  to  my  knees,  muddy,  disreputable.  While 
Burton  held  the  window  I  crawled  into  the  ware- 
house, and  turned  to  perform  the  same  service  for 
him.  At  first  I  could  not  see  him,  outside.  Then  I 
heard  his  voice,  a  whisper,  from  beyond  the  sill. 

"Duck,"  he  said.     "Cop!" 

I  dropped  below  the  window,  and  above  the  rain 
I  could  hear  the  squash  of  the  watchman's  boots  in 
the  mud.  He  flashed  a  night  lamp  in  at  the  window 
next  to  ours,  but  he  was  not  very  near,  and  the  open 
window  escaped  his  notice.  I  felt  all  the  nervous 
dread  of  a  real  malefactor,  and  when  I  heard  the  gate 
close  behind  him,  and  saw  Burton  put  a  leg  over  the 
sill,  I  was  almost  as  relieved  as  I  would  have  been  had 
somebody's  family  plate,  tied  up  in  a  tablecloth,  been 
reposing  at  my  feet. 

Burton  had  an  instinct  for  getting  around  in  the 
dark.  I  lighted  another  match  as  soon  as  he  had 
closed  the  window,  and  we  made  out  our  general  di- 
rection toward  where  the  stairs  ought  to  be.  When 
the  match  went  out,  we  felt  our  way  in  the  dark;  I 
had  only  one  box  of  wax  matches,  and  Burton  had 
dropped  his  in  a  puddle. 

We  got  to  the  second  floor,  finally,  and  without  any 
worse  mishap  than  Burton  banging  his  arm  against  a 
wheel  of  some  sort.  Unlike  the  first  floor,  the  second 
was  subdivided  into  rooms;  it  took  a  dozen  precious 
matches  to  find  our  way  to  the  side  of  the  building 
overlooking  the  club,  and  another  dozen  to  find  the 


254    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

window  we  wanted.  When  we  were  there  at  last,  Bur- 
ton leaned  his  elbows  on  the  sill,  and  looked  down  and 
across. 

"Could  anything  be  better !"  he  said.  "There's  our 
theater,  and  we've  got  a  proscenium  box.  That  room 
over  there  stands  out  like  a  spot-light." 

He  was  right.  Not  more  than  fifteen  feet  away, 
and  perhaps  a  foot  lower  than  our  window,  was  the 
window  of  the  room  where  Fleming  had  been  killed. 
It  was  empty,  as  far  as  we  could  see;  the  table,  neat 
enough  now,  was  where  it  had  been  before,  directly 
under  the  light.  Any  one  who  sat  there  would  be  an 
illuminated  target  from  our  window.  Not  only  that, 
but  an  arm  could  be  steadied  on  the  sill,  allowing  for 
an  almost  perfect  aim. 

"Now,  where's  your  staircase?"  Burton  jeered. 

The  club  was  evidently  full  of  men,  as  he  had 
prophesied.  Above  the  rattle  of  the  rain  came  the 
thump — thump  of  the  piano,  and  a  half-dozen  male 
voices.  The  shutters  below  were  closed;  we  could 
see  nothing. 

I  think  it  was  then  that  Burton  had  his  inspiration. 

"I'll  bet  you  a  five-dollar  bill,"  he  said,  "that  if  I  fire 
off  my  revolver  here,  now,  not  one  of  those  fellows 
down  there  would  pay  the  slightest  attention." 

"I'll  take  that  bet,"  I  returned.  "I'll  wager  that 
every  time  anybody  drops  a  poker,  since  Fleming  was 
shot,  the  entire  club  turns  out  to  investigate." 

In  reply  Burton  got  out  his  revolver,  and  examined 
it  by  holding  it  against  the  light  from  across  the  way. 


A  PROSCENIUM  BOX  255 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  he  said.  "Everybody 
down  there  knows  me ;  I'll  drop  in  for  a  bottle  of  beer, 
and  you  fire  a  shot  into  the  floor  here,  or  into  some- 
body across,  if  you  happen  to  see  any  one  you  don't 
care  for.  I  suggest  that  you  stay  and  fire  the  shot,  be- 
cause if  you  went,  my  friend,  and  nobody  heard  it,  you 
would  accuse  me  of  shooting  from  the  back  of  the 
building  somewhere." 

He  gave  me  the  revolver  and  left  me  with  a  final 
injunction. 

"Wait  for  ten  minutes,"  he  said.  "It  will  take  five 
for  me  to  get  out  of  here,  and  five  more  to  get  into 
the  club-house.  Perhaps  you'd  better  make  it  fifteen." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

IN  THE  ROOM  OVER  THE  WAY 

T  TE  WENT  away  into  the  darkness,  and  I  sat 
•*•  •*•  down  on  an  empty  box  by  the  window  and 
waited.  Had  any  one  asked  me,  at  that  minute,  how 
near  we  were  to  the  solution  of  our  double  mystery, 
I  would  have  said  we  had  made  no  progress — save  by 
eliminating  Wardrop.  Not  for  one  instant  did  I 
dream  that  I  was  within  less  than  half  an  hour  of  a 
revelation  that  changed  my  whole  conception  of  the 
crime. 

I  timed  the  interval  by  using  one  of  my  precious 
matches  to  see  my  watch  when  he  left.  I  sat  there 
for  what  seemed  ten  minutes,  listening  to  the  rush  of 
the  rain  and  the  creaking  of  a  door  behind  me  in  the 
darkness  somewhere,  that  swung  back  and  forth  rustily 
in  the  draft  from  the  broken  windows.  The  gloom 
was  infinitely  depressing;  away  from  Burton's  en- 
thusiasm, his  scheme  lacked  point;  his  argument,  that 
the  night  duplicated  the  weather  conditions  of  that 
other  night,  a  week  ago,  seemed  less  worthy  of  con- 
sideration. 

Besides,  I  have  a  horror  of  making  myself  ridicu- 
lous, and  I  had  an  idea  that  it  would  be  hard  to  ex- 
plain my  position,  alone  in  the  warehouse,  firing  a  re- 

256 


IN  THE  ROOM  OVER  THE  WAY     257 

volver  into  the  floor,  if  my  own  argument  was  right, 
and  the  club  should  rouse  to  a  search.  I  looked  again 
at  my  watch ;  only  six  minutes. 

Eight  minutes. 

Nine  minutes. 

Every  one  who  has  counted  the  passing  of  seconds 
knows  how  they  drag.  With  my  eyes  on  the  room 
across,  and  my  finger  on  the  trigger,  I  waited  as  best 
I  could.  At  ten  minutes  I  was  conscious  there  was 
some  one  in  the  room  over  the  way.  And  then  he 
came  into  view  from  the  side  somewhere,  and  went 
to  the  table.  He  had  his  back  to  me,  and  I  could  only 
see  that  he  was  a  large  man,  with  massive  shoulders 
and  dark  hair. 

It  was  difficult  to  make  out  what  he  was  doing. 
After  a  half-minute,  however,  he  stepped  to  one  side, 
and  I  saw  that  he  had  lighted  a  candle,  and  was 
systematically  reading  and  then  burning  certain  papers, 
throwing  the  charred  fragments  on  the  table.  With 
the  same  glance  that  told  me  that,  I  knew  the  man.  It 
was  Schwartz. 

I  was  so  engrossed  in  watching  him  that  when  he 
turned  and  came  directly  to  the  window,  I  stood  per- 
fectly still,  staring  at  him.  With  the  light  at  his  back, 
I  felt  certain  I  had  been  discovered,  but  I  was  wrong. 
He  shook  the  newspaper  which  had  held  the  fragments, 
out  of  the  window,  lighted  a  cigarette  and  flung  the 
match  out  also,  and  turned  back  into  the  room.  As  a 
second  thought,  he  went  back  and  jerked  at  the  cord  of 
the  window-shade,  but  it  refused  to  move. 


258     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

He  was  not  alone,  for  from  the  window  he  turned 
and  addressed  some  one  in  the  room  behind. 

"You  are  sure  you  got  them  all  ?"  he  said. 

The  other  occupant  of  the  room  came  within  range 
of  vision.  It  was  Davidson. 

"All  there  were,  Mr.  Schwartz,"  he  replied.  "We 
were  nearly  finished  before  the  woman  made  a  bolt." 
He  was  fumbling  in  his  pockets.  I  think  I  expected 
him  to  produce  an  apple  and  a  penknife,  but  he  held 
out  a  small  object  on  the  palm  of  his  hand. 

"I  would  rather  have  done  it  alone,  Mr.  Schwartz," 
he  said.  "I  found  this  ring  in  Brigg's  pocket  this 
morning.  It  belongs  to  the  girl." 

Schwartz  swore,  and  picking  up  the  ring,  held  it  to 
the  light.  Then  he  made  an  angry  motion  to  throw 
it  out  of  the  window,  but  his  German  cupidity  got  the 
better  of  him.  He  slid  it  into  his  vest  pocket  instead. 

"You're  damned  poor  stuff,  Davidson,"  he  said,  with 
a  snarl.  "If  she  hasn't  got  them,  then  Wardrop  has. 
You'll  bungle  this  job  and  there'll  be  hell  to  pay.  Tell 
McFeely  I  want  to  see  him." 

Davidson  left,  for  I  heard  the  door  close.  Schwartz 
took  the  ring  out  and  held  it  to  the  light.  I  looked  at 
my  watch.  The  time  was  almost  up. 

A  fresh  burst  of  noise  came  from  below.  I  leaned 
out  cautiously  and  looked  down  at  the  lower  windows ; 
they  were  still  closed  and  shuttered.  When  I  raised 
my  eyes  again  to  the  level  of  the  room  across,  I  was 
amazed  to  see  a  second  figure  in  the  room — a  woman, 
at  that. 


IJST  THE  ROOM  OVER  THE  WAY    259 

Schwartz  had  not  seen  her.  He  stood  with  his 
back  to  her,  looking  at  the  ring  in  his  hand.  The 
woman  had  thrown  her  veil  back,  but  I  could  see 
nothing  of  her  face  as  she  stood.  She  looked  small 
beside  Schwartz's  towering  height,  and  she  wore  black. 

She  must  have  said  something  just  then,  very  quietly, 
for  Schwartz  suddenly  lifted  his  head  and  wheeled  on 
her.  I  had  a  clear  view  of  him,  and  if  ever  guilt,  rage, 
and  white-lipped  fear  showed  on  a  man's  face,  it 
showed  on  his.  He  replied — a  half-dozen  words,  in  a 
low  tone,  and  made  a  motion  to  offer  her  a  chair.  But 
she  paid  no  attention. 

I  have  no  idea  how  long  a  time  they  talked.  The 
fresh  outburst  of  noise  below  made  it  impossible  to 
hear  what  they  said,  and  there  was  always  the  mad- 
dening fact  that  I  could  not  see  her  face.  I  thought 
of  Mrs.  Fleming,  but  this  woman  seemed  younger  and 
more  slender.  Schwartz  was  arguing,  I  imagined, 
but  she  stood  immobile,  scornful,  watching  him.  She 
seemed  to  have  made  a  request,  and  the  man's  evasions 
moved  her  no  whit. 

It  may  have  been  only  two  or  three  minutes,  but  it 
seemed  longer.  Schwartz  had  given  up  the  argument, 
whatever  it  was,  and  by  pointing  out  the  window,  I 
supposed  he  was  telling  her  he  had  thrown  what  she 
wanted  out  there.  Even  then  she  did  not  turn  toward 
me ;  I  could  not  see  even  her  profile. 

What  happened  next  was  so  unexpected  that  it  re-* 
mains  little  more  than  a  picture  in  my  mind.  Tha 
man  threw  out  his  hands  as  if  to  show  he  could  not 


or  would  not  accede  to  her  request;  he  was  flushed 
with  rage,  and  even  at  that  distance  the  ugly  scar  on 
his  forehead  stood  out  like  a  welt.  The  next  moment 
I  saw  the  woman  raise  her  right  hand,  with  something 
in  it. 

I  yelled  to  Schwartz  to  warn  him,  but  he  had  al- 
ready seen  the  revolver.  As  he  struck  her  hand  aside, 
the  explosion  came;  I  saw  her  stagger,  clutch  at  a 
chair,  and  fall  backward  beyond  my  range  of  vision. 

Then  the  light  went  out,  and  I  was  staring  at  a  black, 
brick  wall. 

I  turned  and  ran  frantically  toward  the  stairs. 
Luckily,  I  found  them  easily.  I  fell  rather  than  ran 
down  to  the  floor  below.  Then  I  made  a  wrong  turn- 
ing and  lost  some  time.  My  last  match  set  me  right 
and  I  got  into  the  yard  somehow,  and  to  the  street. 

It  was  raining  harder  than  ever,  and  the  thunder 
was  incessant.  I  ran  around  the  corner  of  the  street, 
and  found  the  gate  to  the  White  Cat  without  trouble. 
The  inner  gate  was  unlocked,  as  Burton  had  said  he 
would  leave  it,  and  from  the  steps  of  the  club  I  could 
hear  laughter  and  the  refrain  of  a  popular  song.  The 
door  opened  just  as  I  reached  the  top  step,  and  I  half- 
tumbled  inside. 

Burton  was  there  in  the  kitchen,  with  two  other  men 
whom  I  did  not  recognize,  each  one  holding  a  stein  of 
beer.  Burton  had  two,  and  he  held  one  out  to  me  as 
I  stood  trying  to  get  my  breath. 

"You  win,"  he  said.  "Although  I'm  a  hard-work- 
ing journalist  and  need  the  money,  I  won't  lie.  This 


IN  THE  ROOM  OVER  THE  WAY    261 

is  Osborne  of  the  Star  and  McTighe  of  the  Eagle,  Mr. 
Knox.  They  heard  the  shot  in  there,  and  if  I  hadn't 
told  the  story,  there  would  have  been  a  panic.  What's 
the  matter  with  you  ?" 

I  shut  the  door  into  the  grill-room  and  faced  the 
three  men. 

"For  God's  sake,  Burton,"  I  panted,  "let's  get  up- 
stairs quietly.  I  didn't  fire  any  shot.  There's  a 
woman  dead  up  there." 

With  characteristic  poise,  the  three  reporters  took 
the  situation  quietly.  We  filed  through  the  grill-room 
as  casually  as  we  could;  with  the  door  closed,  how- 
ever, we  threw  caution  aside.  I  led  the  way  up  the 
stairs  to  the  room  where  I  had  found  Fleming's  body, 
and  where  I  expected  to  find  another. 

On  the  landing  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  I  came  face 
to  face  with  Davidson,  the  detective,  and  behind  him 
Judge  McFeely.  Davidson  was  trying  to  open  the 
door  of  the  room  where  Fleming  had  been  shot,  with 
a  skeleton  key.  But  it  was  bolted  inside.  There  was 
only  one  thing  to  do:  I  climbed  on  the  shoulders  of 
one  of  the  men,  a  tall  fellow,  whose  face  to  this  day 
I  don't  remember,  and  by  careful  maneuvering  and 
the  assistance  of  Davidson's  long  arms,  I  got  through 
the  transom  and  dropped  into  the  room. 

I  hardly  know  what  I  expected.  I  was  in  total 
darkness.  I  know  that  when  I  had  got  the  door  open 
at  last,  when  the  cheerful  light  from  the  hall  streamed 
in,  and  I  had  not  felt  Schwartz's  heavy  hand  at  my 
throat,  I  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief.  Burton  found 


262     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

the  electric  light  switch  and  turned  it  on.  And  then 
• — I  could  hardly  believe  my  senses.  The  room  was 
empty. 

One  of  the  men  laughed  a  little. 

"Stung!"  he  said  lightly.  "What  sort  of  a  story 
have  you  and  your  friend  framed  up,  Burton?" 

But  I  stopped  at  that  minute  and  picked  up  a  small 
nickel-plated  revolver  from  the  floor.  I  held  it  out, 
on  my  palm,  and  the  others  eyed  it  respectfully. 

Burton,  after  all,  was  the  quickest-witted  of  the  lot. 
He  threw  open  one  of  the  two  doors  in  the  room,  re- 
vealing a  shallow  closet,  with  papered  walls  and  a 
row  of  hooks.  The  other  door  stuck  tight.  One  of 
the  men  pointed  to  the  floor ;  a  bit  of  black  cloth  had 
wedged  it,  from  the  other  side.  Our  combined  efforts 
got  it  open  at  last,  and  we  crowded  in  the  doorway, 
looking  down  a  flight  of  stairs. 

Huddled  just  below  us,  her  head  at  our  feet,  was 
the  body  of  the  missing  woman. 

"My  God,"  Burton  said  hoarsely,  "who  is  it?" 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

A  BOX   OF    CROWN  DERBY 

WE  GOT  her  into  the  room  and  on  the  couch 
before  I  knew  her.  Her  fair  hair  had  fallen 
loose  over  her  face,  and  one  long,  thin  hand  clutched 
still  at  the  bosom  of  her  gown.  It  was  Ellen  Butler ! 

She  was  living,  but  not  much  more.  We  gathered 
around  and  stood  looking  down  at  her  in  helpless  pity. 
A  current  of  cold  night  air  came  up  the  staircase  from 
an  open  door  below,  and  set  the  hanging  light  to  sway- 
ing, throwing  our  shadows  in  a  sort  of  ghastly  dance 
over  her  quiet  face. 

I  was  too  much  shocked  to  be  surprised.  Burton 
had  picked  up  her  hat,  and  put  it  beside  her. 

"She's  got  about  an  hour,  I  should  say,"  said  one 
of  the  newspaper  men.  "See  if  Gray  is  around,  will 
you,  Jim  ?  He's  mostly  here  Saturday  night." 

"Is  it — Miss  Maitland  ?"  Burton  asked,  in  a  strangely 
subdued  voice. 

"No;  it  is  Henry  Butler's  widow,"  I  returned,  and 
the  three  men  were  reporters  again,  at  once. 

Gray  was  there  and  came  immediately.  Whatever 
surprise  he  may  have  felt  at  seeing  a  woman  there, 
and  dying,  he  made  no  comment.  He  said  she  might 

263 


264     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

live  six  hours,  but  the  end  was  certain.  We  got  a 
hospital  ambulance,  and  with  the  clang  of  its  bell  as  it 
turned  the  corner  and  hurried  away,  the  White  Cat 
drops  out  of  this  story,  so  far  as  action  is  concerned. 

Three  detectives  and  as  many  reporters  hunted 
Schwartz  all  of  that  night  and  the  next  day,  to  get 
his  story.  But  he  remained  in  hiding.  He  had  a 
start  of  over  an  hour,  from  the  time  he  switched  off 
the  light  and  escaped  down  the  built-in  staircase. 
Even  in  her  agony,  Ellen  Butler's  hate  had  carried 
her  through  the  doorway  after  him,  to  collapse  on  the 
stairs. 

I  got  home  just  as  the  cab,  with  Fred  and  Edith, 
stopped  at  the  door.  I  did  not  let  them  get  out;  a 
half  dozen  words,  without  comment  or  explanation, 
and  they  were  driving  madly  to  the  hospital. 

Katie  let  me  in,  and  I  gave  her  some  money  to  stay 
up  and  watch  the  place  while  we  were  away.  Then, 
not  finding  a  cab,  I  took  a  car  and  rode  to  the  hospital. 

The  building  was  appallingly  quiet.  The  elevator 
cage,  without  a  light,  crept  spectrally  up  and  down; 
my  footsteps  on  the  tiled  floor  echoed  and  reechoed 
above  my  head.  A  night  watchman,  in  felt  shoes,  ad- 
mitted me,  and  took  me  up-stairs. 

There  was  another  long  wait  while  the  surgeon 
finished  his  examination,  and  a  nurse  with  a  basin  of 
water  and  some  towels  came  out  of  the  room,  and 
another  one  with  dressings  went  in.  And  then  the 
surgeon  came  out,  in  a  white  coat  with  the  sleeves 
rolled  above  his  elbows,  and  said  I  might  go  in. 


A  BOX  OF  CROWN  DERBY      265 

The  cover  was  drawn  up  to  the  injured  woman's 
chin,  where  it  was  folded  neatly  back.  Her  face  was 
bloodless,  and  her  fair  hair  had  been  gathered  up  in 
a  shaggy  knot.  She  was  breathing  slowly,  but  regu- 
larly, and  her  expression  was  relaxed — more  restful 
than  I  had  ever  seen  it.  As  I  stood  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed  and  looked  down  at  her,  I  knew  that  as  surely 
as  death  was  coming,  it  would  be  welcome. 

Edith  had  been  calm,  before,  but  when  she  saw  me 
she  lost  her  self-control.  She  put  her  head  on  my 
shoulder,  and  sobbed  out  the  shock  and  the  horror 
of  the  thing.  As  for  Fred,  his  imaginative  tempera- 
ment made  him  particularly  sensitive  to  suffering  in 
others.  As  he  sat  there  beside  the  bed  I  knew  by  his 
face  that  he  was  repeating  and  repenting  every  un- 
kind word  he  had  said  about  Ellen  Butler. 

She  was  conscious;  we  realized  that  after  a  time. 
Once  she  asked  for  water,  without  opening  her  eyes, 
and  Fred  slipped  a  bit  of  ice  between  her  white  lips. 
Later  in  the  night  she  looked  up  for  an  instant,  at  me. 

"He — struck  my — hand,"  she  said  with  difficulty, 
and  closed  her  eyes  again. 

During  the  long  night  hours  I  told  the  story,  as  I 
knew  it,  in  an  undertone,  and  there  was  a  new  kindli- 
ness in  Fred's  face  as  he  looked  at  her. 

She  was  still  living  by  morning,  and  was  rallying 
a  little  from  the  shock.  I  got  Fred  to  take  Edith 
home,  and  I  took  her  place  by  the  bed.  Some  one 
brought  me  coffee  about  eight,  and  at  nine  o'clock 
I  was  asked  to  leave  the  room,  while  four  surgeons 


266     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

held  a  consultation  there.  The  decision  to  operate 
was  made  shortly  after. 

"There  is  only  a  chance,"  a  gray-haired  surgeon 
told  me  in  brisk,  short-clipped  words.  "The  bullet 
went  down,  and  has  penetrated  the  abdomen.  Some- 
times, taken  early  enough,  we  can  repair  the  damage, 
to  a  certain  extent,  and  nature  does  the  rest.  The 
family  is  willing,  I  suppose?" 

I  knew  of  no  family  but  Edith,  and  over  the  tele- 
phone she  said,  with  something  of  her  natural  tone, 
to  do  what  the  surgeons  considered  best. 

I  hoped  to  get  some  sort  of  statement  before  the 
injured  woman  was  taken  to  the  operating-room,  but 
she  lay  in  a  stupor,  and  I  had  to  give  up  the  idea.  It 
was  two  days  before  I  got  her  deposition,  and  in  that 
time  I  had  learned  many  things. 

On  Monday  I  took  Margery  to  Bellwood.  She  had 
received  the  news  about  Mrs.  Butler  more  calmly  than 
I  had  expected. 

"I  do  not  think  she  was  quite  sane,  poor  woman," 
she  said  with  a  shudder.  "She  had  had  a  great  deal 
of  trouble.  But  how  strange — a  murder  and  an  at- 
tempt at  murder — at  that  little  club  in  a  week !" 

She  did  not  connect  the  two,  and  I  let  the  thing  rest 
at  that.  Once,  on  the  train,  she  turned  to  me  sud- 
denly, after  she  had  been  plunged  in  thought  for 
several  minutes. 

"Don't  you  think,"  she  asked,  "that  she  had  a  sort 
of  homicidal  mania,  and  that  she  tried  to  kill  me  with 
chloroform  ?" 


A  BOX  OF  CROWN  DERBY      267 

"I  hardly  think  so,"  I  returned  evasively.  "I  am  in- 
clined to  think  some  one  actually  got  in  over  the  porch 
roof." 

"I  am  afraid,"  she  said,  pressing  her  gloved  hands 
tight  together.  "Wherever  I  go,  something  happens 
that  I  can  not  understand.  I  never  wilfully  hurt  any 
one,  and  yet — these  terrible  things  follow  me.  I  am 
afraid — to  go  back  to  Bell  wood,  with  Aunt  Jane  still 
gone,  and  you — in  the  city." 

"A  lot  of  help  I  have  been  to  you,"  I  retorted  bit- 
terly. "Can  you  think  of  a  single  instance  where  I 
.have  been  able  to  save  you  trouble  or  anxiety?  Why, 
I  allowed  you  to  be  chloroformed  within  an  inch  of 
eternity,  before  I  found  you." 

"But  you  did  find  me,"  she  cheered  me.  "And  just 
to  know  that  you  are  doing  all  you  can — " 

"My  poor  best,"  I  supplemented. 

"It  is  very  comforting  to  have  a  friend  one  can  rely 
on,"  she  finished,  and  the  little  bit  of  kindness  went 
to  my  head.  If  she  had  not  got  a  cinder  in  her  eye 
at  that  psychological  moment,  I'm  afraid  I  would 
figuratively  have  trampled  Wardrop  underfoot,  right 
there.  As  it  was,  I  got  the  cinder,  after  a  great  deal 
of  looking  into  one  beautiful  eye — which  is  not  as 
satisfactory  by  half  as  looking  into  two — and  then 
we  were  at  Bellwood. 

We  found  Miss  Letitia  in  the  lower  hall,  and  Heppie 
on  her  knees  with  a  hatchet.  Between  them  sat  a  pack- 
ing box,  and  they  were  having  a  spirited  discussion  as 
to  how  it  should  be  opened. 


268    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

"Here,  give  it  to  me,"  Miss  Letitia  demanded,  as 
we  stopped  in  the  doorway.  "You've  got  stove  lengths 
there  for  two  days  if  you  don't  chop  'em  up  into 
splinters." 

With  the  hatchet  poised  in  mid  air  she  saw  us,  but 
she  let  it  descend  with  considerable  accuracy  neverthe- 
less, and  our  greeting  was  made  between  thumps. 

"Come  in" — thump — "like  as  not  it's  a  mistake" — i 
bang — "but  the  expressage  was  prepaid.  If  it's  min- 
eral water — "  crash.  Something  broke  inside. 

"If  it's  mineral  water,"  I  said,  "you'd  better  let  me 
open  it.  Mineral  water  is  meant  for  internal  use,  and 
not  for  hall  carpets."  I  got  the  hatchet  from  her 
gradually.  "I  knew  a  case  once  where  a  bottle  of  hair 
tonic  was  spilled  on  a  rag  carpet,  and  in  a  year  they 
had  it  dyed  with  spots  over  it  and  called  it  a  tiger 
skin." 

She  watched  me  suspiciously  while  I  straightened 
the  nails  she  had  bent,  and  lifted  the  boards.  In  the 
matter  of  curiosity,  Miss  Letitia  was  truly  feminine; 
great  handfuls  of  excelsior  she  dragged  out  herself, 
and  heaped  on  Heppie's  blue  apron,  stretched  out  on 
the  floor. 

The  article  that  had  smashed  under  the  vigor  of 
Miss  Letitia's  seventy  years  lay  on  the  top.  It  had 
been  a  tea-pot,  of  some  very  beautiful  ware.  I  have 
called  just  now  from  my  study,  to  ask  what  sort  of 
ware  it  was,  and  the  lady  who  sets  me  right  says  it 
was  Crown  Derby.  Then  there  were  rows  of  cups 
and  saucers,  and  heterogeneous  articles  in  the  same 


A  BOX  OF  CROWN  DERBY      269 

material  that  the  women  folk  seemed  to  understand. 
At  the  last,  when  the  excitement  seemed  over,  they 
found  a  toast  rack  in  a  lower  corner  of  the  box  and 
the  "Ohs"  and  "Ahs"  had  to  be  done  all  over  again. 

Not  until  Miss  Letitia  had  arranged  it  all  on  the 
dining-room  table,  and  Margery  had  taken  off  her 
wraps  and  admired  from  all  four  corners,  did  Miss 
Letitia  begin  to  ask  where  they  had  come  from.  And 
by  that  time  Heppie  had  the  crate  in  the  wood-box, 
and  the  excelsior  was  a  black  and  smoking  mass  at 
the  kitchen  end  of  the  grounds. 

There  was  not  the  slightest  clue  to  the  sender,  but 
while  Miss  Letitia  rated  Heppie  loudly  in  the  kitchen, 
and  Bella  swept  up  the  hall,  Margery  voiced  the  same 
idea  that  had  occurred  to  me. 

"If — if  Aunt  Jane  were — all  right,"  she  said  tremu- 
lously, "it  would  be  just  the  sort  of  thing  she  loves  to 
do." 

I  had  intended  to  go  back  to  the  city  at  once,  but 
Miss  Letitia's  box  had  put  her  in  an  almost  cheerful 
humor,  and  she  insisted  that  I  go  with  her  to  Miss 
Jane's  room,  and  see  how  it  was  prepared  for  its 
owner's  return. 

"I'm  not  pretending  to  know  what  took  Jane  Mait- 
land  away  from  this  house  in  the  middle  of  the  night," 
she  said.  "She  was  a  good  bit  of  a  fool,  Jane  was; 
she  never  grew  up.  But  if  I  know  Jane  Maitland, 
she  will  come  back  and  be  buried  with  her  people,  if 
it's  only  to  put  Mary's  husband  out  of  the  end  of  the 
lot. 


270     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

"And  another  thing,  Knox,"  she  went  on,  and  I  saw 
her  old  hands  were  shaking.  "I  told  you  the  last  time 
you  were  here  that  I  hadn't  been  robbed  of  any  of  the 
pearls,  after  all.  Half  of  those  pearls  were  Jane's 
and — she  had  a  perfect  right  to  take  forty-nine  of  them 
if  she  wanted.  She — she  told  me  she  was  going  to 
take  some,  and  it — slipped  my  mind." 

I  believe  it  was  the  first  lie  she  had  ever  told  in  her 
hard,  conscientious  old  life.  Was  she  right?  I  won- 
dered. Had  Miss  Jane  taken  the  pearls,  and  if  she 
had,  why? 

Wardrop  had  been  taking  a  long  walk ;  he  got  back 
about  five,  and  as  Miss  Letitia  was  in  the  middle  of  a 
diatribe  against  white  undergarments  for  colored  chil- 
dren, Margery  and  he  had  a  half -hour  alone  together. 
I  had  known,  of  course,  that  it  must  come,  but  under 
the  circumstances,  with  my  whole  future  existence  at 
stake,  I  was  vague  as  to  whether  it  was  colored  under- 
garments on  white  orphans  or  the  other  way  round. 

When  I  got  away  at  last,  I  found  Bella  waiting  for 
me  in  the  hall.  Her  eyes  were  red  with  crying,  and 
she  had  a  crumpled  newspaper  in  her  hand.  She  broke 
down  when  she  tried  to  speak,  but  I  got  the  newspaper 
from  her,  and  she  pointed  with  one  work-hardened 
finger  to  a  column  on  the  first  page.  It  was  the  an- 
nouncement of  Mrs.  Butler's  tragic  accident,  and  the 
mystery  that  surrounded  it.  There  was  no  mention 
of  Schwartz. 

"Is  she — dead  ?"  Bella  choked  out  at  last. 

"Not  yet,  but  there  is  very  little  hope." 


A  BOX  OF  CROWN  DERBY      271 

Amid  fresh  tears  and  shakings  of  her  heavy  shoul- 
ders, as  she  sat  in  her  favorite  place,  on  the  stairs, 
Bella  told  me,  briefly,  that  she  had  lived  with  Mrs. 
Butler  since  she  was  sixteen,  and  had  only  left  when 
the  husband's  suicide  had  broken  up  the  home.  I 
could  get  nothing  else  out  of  her,  but  gradually  Bella's 
share  in  the  mystery  was  coming  to  light. 

Slowly,  too — it  was  a  new  business  for  me — I  was 
forming  a  theory  of  my  own.  It  was  a  strange  one, 
but  it  seemed  to  fit  the  facts  as  I  knew  them.  With 
the  story  Wardrop  told  that  afternoon  came  my  first 
glimmer  of  light. 

He  was  looking  better  than  he  had  when  I  saw 
him  before,  but  the  news  of  Mrs.  Butler's  approach- 
ing death  and  the  manner  of  her  injury  affected  him 
strangely.  He  had  seen  the  paper,  like  Bella,  and  he 
turned  on  me  almost  fiercely  when  I  entered  the  li- 
brary. Margery  was  in  her  old  position  at  the  window, 
looking  out,  and  I  knew  the  despondent  droop  of  her 
shoulders. 

"Is  she  conscious?"  Wardrop  asked  eagerly,  indi- 
cating the  article  in  the  paper. 

"No,  not  now — at  least,  it  is  not  likely." 

He  looked  relieved  at  that,  but  only  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  began  to  pace  the  room  nervously,  evidently 
debating  some  move.  His  next  action  showed  the 
development  of  a  resolution,  for  he  pushed  forward 
two  chairs  for  Margery  and  myself. 

"Sit  down,  both  of  you,"  he  directed.  "I've  got 
a  lot  to  say,  and  I  want  you  both  to  listen.  When 


272     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

Margery  has  heard  the  whole  story,  she  will  prob- 
ably despise  me  for  the  rest  of  her  life.  I  can't  help 
it.  I've  got  to  tell  all  I  know,  and  it  isn't  so  much 
after  all.  You  didn't  fool  me  yesterday,  Knox;  I 
knew  what  that  doctor  was  after.  But  he  couldn't 
make  me  tell  who  killed  Mr.  Fleming,  because,  be- 
fore God,  I  didn't  know." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

WARDROP'S  STORY 

«T  HAVE  to  go  back  to  the  night  Miss  Jane  dis- 

•*•  appeared — and  that's  another  thing  that  has 
driven  me  desperate.  Will  you  tell  me  why  I  should 
be  suspected  of  having  a  hand  in  that,  when  she  had 
been  a  mother  to  me?  If  she  is  dead,  she  can't  exon- 
erate me;  if  she  is  living,  and  we  find  her,  she  will 
tell  you  what  I  tell  you — that  I  know  nothing  of  the 
whole  terrible  business." 

"I  am  quite  certain  of  that,  Wardrop,"  I  interposed. 
"Besides,  I  think  I  have  got  to  the  bottom  of  that  mys- 
tery." 

Margery  looked  at  me  quickly,  but  I  shook  my 
head.  It  was  too  early  to  tell  my  suspicions. 

"The  things  that  looked  black  against  me  were 
bad  enough,  but  they  had  nothing  to  do  with  Miss 
Jane.  I  will  have  to  go  back  to  before  the  night  she 
— went  away,  back  to  the  time  Mr.  Butler  was  the 
state  treasurer,  and  your  father,  Margery,  was  his 
cashier. 

"Butler  was  not  a  business  man.  He  let  too  much 
responsibility  lie  with  his  subordinates — and  then, 
according  to  the  story,  he  couldn't  do  much  any- 
how, against  Schwartz.  The  cashier  was  entirely  un- 

273 


der  machine  control,  and  Butler  was  neglectful.  You 
remember,  Knox,  the  crash,  when  three  banks,  rotten 
to  the  core,  went  under,  and  it  was  found  a  large 
amount  of  state  money  had  gone  too.  It  was  Fleming 
who  did  it — I  am  sorry,  Margery,  but  this  is  no  time 
to  mince  words.  It  was  Fleming  who  deposited  the 
money  in  the  wrecked  banks,  knowing  what  would 
happen.  When  the  crash  came,  Butler's  sureties,  to 
save  themselves,  confiscated  every  dollar  he  had  in  the 
world.  Butler  went  to  the  penitentiary  for  six  months, 
on  some  minor  count,  and  when  he  got  out,  after  writ- 
irtg  to  Fleming  and  Schwartz,  protesting  his  innocence, 
and  asking  for  enough  out  of  the  fortune  they  had 
robbed  him  of  to  support  his  wife,  he  killed  himself, 
at  the  White  Cat." 

Margery  was  very  pale,  but  quiet.  She  sat  with 
her  fingers  locked  in  her  lap,  and  her  eyes  on  War- 
drop. 

"It  was  a  bad  business,"  Wardrop  went  on  wearily. 
"Fleming  moved  into  Butler's  place  as  treasurer,  and 
took  Lightfoot  as  his  cashier.  That  kept  the  lid  on. 
Once  or  twice,  when  there  was  an  unexpected  call 
for  funds,  the  treasury  was  almost  empty,  and 
Schwartz  carried  things1  over  himself.  I  went  to 
Plattsburg  as  Mr.  Fleming's  private  secretary  when 
he  became  treasurer,  and  from  the  first  I  knew  things 
were  even  worse  than  the  average  state  government. 

"Schwartz  and  Fleming  had  to  hold  together;  they 
hated  each  other,  and  the  feeling  was  trebled  when 
Fleming  married  Schwartz's  divorced  wife." 


WARDROP'S  STORY  275 

Margery  looked  at  me  with  startled,  incredulous 
eyes.  What  she  must  have  seen  confirmed  Wardrop's 
words,  and  she  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  limp  and 
unnerved.  But  she  heard  and  comprehended  every 
word  Wardrop  was  saying. 

"The  woman  was  a  very  ordinary  person,  but  it 
seems  Schwartz  cared  for  her,  and  he  tried  to  stab 
Mr.  Fleming  shortly  after  the  marriage.  About  a 
year  ago  Mr.  Fleming  said  another  attempt  had  been 
made  on  his  life,  with  poison;  he  was  rery  much 
alarmed,  and  I  noticed  a  change  in  him  from  that 
time  on.  Things  were  not  going  well  at  the  treasury; 
Schwartz  and  his  crowd  were  making  demands  that 
were  hard  to  supply,  and  behind  all  that,  Fleming  was 
afraid  to  go  out  alone  at  night. 

"He  employed  a  man  to  protect  him,  a  man  named 
Carter,  who  had  been  a  bartender  in  Plattsburg. 
When  things  began  to  happen  here  in  Manchester,  he 
took  Carter  to  the  home  as  a  butler. 

"Then  the  Borough  Bank  got  shaky.  If  it  went 
down  there  would  be  an  ugly  scandal,  and  Fleming 
would  go  too.  His  notes  for  half  a  million  were  there, 
without  security,  and  he  dared  not  show  the  canceled 
notes  he  had,  with  Schwartz's  indorsement 

"I'm  not  proud  of  the  rest  of  the  story,  Margery." 
He  stopped  his  nervous  pacing  and  stood  looking 
down  at  her.  "I  was  engaged  to  marry  a  girl  who 
was  everything  on  earth  to  me,  and — I  was  private 
secretary  to  the  state  treasurer,  with  the  princely 
salary  of  such  a  position! 


276    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

"Mr.  Fleming  came  back  here  when  the  Borough 
Bank  threatened  failure,  and  tried  to  get  money 
enough  to  tide  over  the  trouble.  A  half  million  would 
have  done  it,  but  he  couldn't  get  it.  He  was  in  But- 
ler's position  exactly,  only  he  was  guilty  and  Butler 
was  innocent.  He  raised  a  little  money  here,  and  I 
went  to  Plattsburg  with  securities  and  letters.  It 
isn't  necessary  to  go  over  the  things  I  suffered  there; 
I  brought  back  one  hundred  and  ten  thousand  dollars, 
in  a  package  in  my  Russia  leather  bag.  And — I  had 
something  else." 

He  wavered  for  the  first  time  in  his  recital.  He 
went  on  more  rapidly,  and  without  looking  at  either 
of  us. 

"I  carried,  not  in  the  valise,  a  bundle  of  letters, 
five  in  all,  which  had  been  written  by  Henry  Butler  to 
Mr.  Fleming,  letters  that  showed  what  a  dupe  Butler 
had  been,  that  he  had  been  negligent,  but  not  criminal  ; 
accusing  Fleming  of  having  ruined  him,  and  demand- 
ing certain  notes  that  would  have  proved  it.  If  But- 
ler could  have  produced  the  letters  at  the  time  of  his 
trial,  things  would  have  been  different." 

"Were  you  going  to  sell  the  letters?"  Margery  de- 
manded, with  quick  scorn. 

"I  intended  to,  but — I  didn't.  It  was  a  little  bit 
too  dirty,  after  all.  I  met  Mrs.  Butler  for  the  second 
time  in  my  life,  at  the  gate  down  there,  as  I  came  up 
from  the  train  the  night  I  got  here  from  Plattsburg. 
She  had  offered  to  buy  the  letters,  and  I  had  brought 
them  to  sell  to  her.  And  then,  at  the  last  minute,  I 


WARDROP'S  STORY  277 

lied.  I  said  I  couldn't  get  them — that  they  were  locked 
in  the  Monmouth  Avenue  house.  I  put  her  in  a  taxicati 
that  she  had  waiting,  and  she  went  back  to  town.  I 
felt  like  a  cad;  she  wanted  to  clear  her  husband's 
memory,  and  I — well,  Mr.  Fleming  was  your  father, 
Margery,  I  couldn't  hurt  you  like  that." 

"Do  you  think  Mrs.  Butler  took  your  leather  bag?" 
I  asked. 

"I  do  not  think  so.  It  seems  to  be  the  only  expla- 
nation, but  I  did  not  let  it  out  of  my  hand  one  moment 
while  we  were  talking.  My  hand  was  cramped  from 
holding  it,  when  she  gave  up  in  despair  at  last,  and 
went  back  to  the  city." 

"What  did  you  do  with  the  letters  she  wanted?" 

"I  kept  them  with  me  that  night,  and  the  next 
morning  hid  them  in  the  secret  closet.  That  was  when 
I  dropped  my  fountain  pen!" 

"And  the  pearls?"  Margery  asked  suddenly. 
"When  did  you  get  them,  Harry?" 

To  my  surprise  his  face  did  not  change.  He  ap- 
peared to  be  thinking. 

"Two  days  before  I  left,"  he  said.  "We  were  using 
every  method  to  get  money,  and  your  father  said  to 
sacrifice  them,  if  necessary." 

"My  father!" 

He  wheeled  on  us  both. 

"Did  you  think  I  stole  them?"  he  demanded.  And 
I  confess  that  I  was  ashamed  to  say  I  had  thought 
precisely  that. 

"Your  father  gave  me  nine  unmounted  pearls  to 


278     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

sell,"  he  reiterated.  "I  got  about  a  thousand  dollars 
for  them — eleven  hundred  and  something,  I  believe." 

Margery  looked  at  me.  I  think  she  was  fairly 
stunned.  To  learn  that  her  father  had  married  again, 
that  he  had  been  the  keystone  in  an«  arch  of  villainy 
that,  with  him  gone,  was  now  about  to  fadl,  and  to  as- 
sociate him  with  so  small  and  mean  a  thing  as  the  theft 
of  a  handful  of  pearls — she  was  fairly  stunned. 

"Then,"  I  said,  to  bring  Wardrop  back  to  his  story, 
"you  found  you  had  been  robbed  of  the  money,  and 
you  went  in  to  tell  Mr.  Fleming.  You  had  some 
words,  didn't  you?" 

"He  thought  what  you  all  thought,"  Wardrop  said 
bitterly.  "He  accused  me  of  stealing  the  money.  I 
felt  worse  than  a  thief.  He  was  desperate,  and  I 
took  his  revolver  from  him." 

Margery  had  put  her  hands  over  her  eyes.  It  was  a 
terrible  strain  for  her,  but  when  I  suggested  that  she 
wait  for  the  rest  of  the  story  she  refused  vehemently. 

"I  came  back  here  to*  Bellwood,  and  the  first  thing 
I  learned  was  about  Miss  Jane.  When  I  saw  the  blood 
print  on  the  stair  rail,  I  thought  she  was  murdered, 
and  I  had  more  thari  I  could  stand.  I  took  the  letters 
out  of  the  secret  closet,  before  I  could  show  it  to  you 
and  Hunter,  and  later  I  put  them  in  the  leather  bag 
I  gave  you,  and  locked  it.  You  have  it,  haven't  you, 
Knox?" 

I  nodded. 

"As  for  that  night  at  the  club,  I  told  the  truth 


WARDROP'S  STORY  279 

then,  but  not  all  the  truth.  I  suppose  I  am  a  coward, 
but  I  was  afraid  to.  If  you  knew  Schwartz,  you 
would  understand." 

With  the  memory  of  his  huge  figure  and  the  heavy 
under-shot  face  that  I  had  seen  the  night  before,  I 
could  understand  very  well,  knowing  Wardrop. 

"I  went  to  that  room  at  the  White  Cat  that  night, 
because  I  was  afraid  not  to  go.  Fleming  might  kill 
himself  or  some  one  else.  I  went  up  the  stairs,  slowly, 
and  I  heard  no  shot.  At  the  door  I  hesitated,  then 
opened  it  quietly.  The  door  into  the  built-in  staircase 
was  just  closing.  It  must  have  taken  me  only  an  in- 
stant to  realize  what  had  happened.  Fleming  was 
swaying  forward  as  I  caught  him.  I  jumped  to  the 
staircase  and  looked  down,  but  I  was  too  late.  The 
door  below  had  closed.  I  knew  in  another  minute 
who  had  been  there,  and  escaped.  It  was  raining,  you 
remember,  and  Schwartz  had  forgotten  to  take  his 
umbrella  with  his  name  on  the  handle!" 

"Schwartz!" 

"Now  do  you  understand  why  I  was  being  fol- 
lowed?" he  demanded.  "I  have  been  under  surveil- 
lance every  minute  since  that  night.  There's  prob- 
ably some  one  hanging  around  the  gate  now.  Any- 
how, I  was  frantic.  I  saw  how  it  looked  for  me,  and 
if  I  had  brought  Schwartz  into  it,  I  would  have  been 
knifed  in  forty-eight  hours.  I  hardly  remember  what 
I  did.  I  know  I  ran  for  a  doctor,  and  I  took  the  um- 
brella with  me  and  left  it  in  the  vestibule  of  the  first 


280    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

house  I  saw  with  a  doctor's  sign.  I  rang  the  bell 
like  a  crazy  man,  and  then  Hunter  came  along  and 
said  to  go  back ;  Doctor  Gray  was  at  the  club. 

"That  is  all  I  know.  I'm  not  proud  of  it,  Margery, 
but  it  might  have  been  worse,  and  it's  the  truth.  It 
clears  up  something,  but  not  all.  It  doesn't  tell  where 
Aunt  Jane  is,  or  who  has  the  hundred  thousand.  But 
it  does  show  who  killed  your  father.  And  if  you 
know  what  is  good  for  you,  Knox,  you  will  let  it  go  at 
that.  You  can't  fight  the  police  and  the  courts  single- 
handed.  Look  how  the  whole  thing  was  dropped,  and 
the  most  cold-blooded  kind  of  murder  turned  into 
suicide.  Suicide  without  a  weapon!  Bah!" 

"I  am  not  so  sure  about  Schwartz,"  I  said  thought- 
fully. "We  haven't  yet  learned  about  eleven  twenty- 
two  C." 


CHAPTER    XXV 

MEASURE   FOR   MEASURE 

MISS  JANE  MAITLAND  had  been  missing  for 
ten  days.  In  that  time  not  one  word  had  come 
from  her.  The  reporter  from  the  Eagle  had  located 
her  in  a  dozen  places,  and  was  growing  thin  and  hag- 
gard following  little  old  ladies  along  the  street — and 
being  sent  about  his  business  tartly  when  he  tried  to 
make  inquiries. 

Some  things  puzzled  me  more  than  ever  in  the  light 
of  Wardrop's  story.  For  the  third  time  I  asked  my- 
self why  Miss  Letitia  denied  the  loss  of  the  pearls. 
There  was  nothing  in  what  we  had  learned,  either,  to 
tell  why  Miss  Jane  had  gone  away — to  ascribe  a 
motive. 

How  she  had  gone,  in  view  of  Wardrop's  story  of 
the  cab,  was  clear.  She  had  gone  by  street-car,  walk- 
ing the  three  miles  to  Wynton  alone  at  two  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  although  she  had  never  stirred  around 
the  house  at  night  without  a  candle,  and  was  privately 
known  to  sleep  with  a  light  when  Miss  Letitia  went  to 
bed  first,  and  could  not  see  it  through  the  transom. 

The  theory  I  had  formed  seemed  absurd  at  first,  but 
as  I  thought  it  over,  its  probabilities  grew  on  me.  I 

281 


282     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

took  dinner  at  Bellwood  and  started  for  town  almost 
immediately  after. 

Margery  had  gone  to  Miss  Letitia's  room,  and 
Wardrop  was  pacing  up  and  down  the  veranda,  smok- 
ing. He  looked  dejected  and  anxious,  and  he  wel- 
comed my  suggestion  that  he  walk  down  to  the  station 
with  me.  As  we  went,  a  man  emerged  from  the  trees 
across  and  came  slowly  after  us. 

"You  see,  I  am  only  nominally  a  free  agent,"  he 
said  morosely.  "They'll  poison  me  yet;  I  know  too 
much." 

We  said  little  on  the  way  to  the  train.  Just  before 
it  came  thundering  along,  however,  he  spoke  again. 

"I  am  going  away,  Knox.  There  isn't  anything  in 
this  political  game  for  me,  and  the  law  is  too  long. 
I  have  a  chum  in  Mexico,  and  he  wants  me  to  go  down 
there." 

"Permanently?" 

"Yes.  There's  nothing  to  hold  me  here  now,"  he 
said. 

I  turned  and  faced  him  in  the  glare  of  the  station 
lights. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  demanded. 

"I  mean  that  there  isn't  any  longer  a  reason  why 
one  part  of  the  earth  is  better  than  another.  Mexico 
or  Alaska,  it's  all  the  same  to  me." 

He  turned  on  his  heel  and  left  me.  I  watched  him 
swing  up  the  path,  with  his  head  down;  I  saw  the 
shadowy  figure  of  the  other  man  fall  into  line  behind 
him.  Then  I  caught  the  platform  of  the  last  car  as 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE       283 

it  passed,  and  that  short  ride  into  town  was  a  triumphal 
procession  with  the  wheels  beating  time  and  singing: 
"It's  all  the  same — the  same — to  me — to  me." 

I  called  Burton  by  telephone,  and  was  lucky  enough 
to  find  him  at  the  office.  He  said  he  had  just  got  in, 
and,  as  usual,  he  wanted  something  to  eat.  We  ar- 
ranged to  meet  at  a  little  Chinese  restaurant,  where  at 
that  hour,  nine  o'clock,  we  would  be  almost  alone. 
Later  on,  after  the  theater,  I  knew  that  the  place  would 
be  full  of  people,  and  conversation  impossible. 

Burton  knew  the  place  well,  as  he  did  every  res- 
taurant in  the  city. 

"Hello,  Mike,"  he  said  to  the  unctuous  Chinaman 
who  admitted  us.  And  "Mike"  smiled  a  slant-eyed 
welcome.  The  room  was  empty;  it  was  an  unpre- 
tentious affair,  with  lace  curtains  at  the  windows  and 
small,  very  clean  tables.  At  one  corner  a  cable  and 
slide  communicated  through  a  hole  in  the  ceiling  with 
the  floor  above,  and  through  the  aperture,  Burton's 
order  for  chicken  and  rice,  and  the  inevitable  tea,  was 
barked. 

Burton  listened  attentively  to  Wardrop's  story,  as 
I  repeated  it. 

"So  Schwartz  did  it,  after  all !"  he  said  regretfully, 
"when  I  finished.  "It's  a  tame  ending.  It  had  all  the 
elements  of  the  unusual,  and  it  resolves  itself  into  an 
ordinary,  every-day,  man-to-man  feud.  I'm  disap- 
pointed; we  can't  touch  Schwartz." 

"I  thought  the  Times-Post  was  hot  after  him." 

"Schwartz  bought  the  Times-Post  at  three  o'clock 


284     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

this  afternoon,"  Burton  said,  with  repressed  rage. 
"I'm  called  off.  To-morrow  we  run  a  photograph 
of  Schwartzwold,  his  place  at  Plattsburg,  and  the  next 
day  we  eulogize  the  administration.  I'm  going  down 
the  river  on  an  excursion  boat,  and  write  up  the  pig- 
killing  contest  at  the  union  butchers'  picnic." 

"How  is  Mrs.  Butler?"  I  asked,  as  his  rage  sub- 
sided to  mere  rumbling  in  his  throat. 

"Delirious" — shortly.  "She's  going  to  croak, 
[Wardrop's  going  to  Mexico,  Schwartz  will  be  next 
governor,  and  Miss  Maitland's  body  will  be  found  in  a 
cistern.  The  whole  thing  has  petered  out.  What's 
the  use  of  finding  the  murderer  if  he's  coated  with 
asbestos  and  lined  with  money?  Mike,  I  want  some 
more  tea  to  drown  my  troubles." 

We  called  up  the  hospital  about  ten-thirty,  and 
learned  that  Mrs.  Butler  was  sinking.  Fred  was  there,* 
and  without  much  hope  of  getting  anything,  we  went 
over.  I  took  Burton  in  as  a  nephew  of  the  dying 
woman,  and  I  was  glad  I  had  done  it.  She  was  quite 
conscious,  but  very  weak.  She  told  the  story  to  Fred 
and  myself,  and  in  a  corner  Burton  took  it  down  in 
shorthand.  We  got  her  to  sign  it  about  daylight  some- 
time, and  she  died  very  quietly  shortly  after  Edith  ar- 
rived at  eight. 

To  give  her  story  as  she  gave  it  would  be  impos- 
sible ;  the  ramblings  of  a  sick  mind,  the  terrible  pathos 
of  it  all,  is  impossible  to  repeat.  She  lay  there,  her 
long,  thin  body  practically  dead,  fighting  the  death  rat- 
tle in  her  throat.  There  were  pauses  when  for  five 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE       285 

minutes  she  would  lie  in  a  stupor,  only  to  rouse  and  go 
forward  from  the  very  word  where  she  had  stopped. 

She  began  with  her  married  life,  and  to  understand 
the  beauty  of  it  is  to  understand  the  things  that  came 
after.  She  was  perfectly,  ideally,  illogically  happy. 
Then  one  day  Henry  Butler  accepted  the  nomination 
for  state  treasurer,  and  with  that  things  changed. 
During  his  term  in  office  he  altered  greatly;  his  wife 
could  only  guess  that  things  were  wrong,  for  he  re- 
fused to  talk. 

The  crash  came,  after  all,  with  terrible  suddenness. 
There  had  been  an  all-night  conference  at  the  Butler 
home,  and  Mr.  Butler,  in  a  frenzy  at  finding  himself  a 
dupe,  had  called  the  butler  from  bed  and  forcibly 
ejected  Fleming  and  Schwartz  from  the  house.  Ellen 
Butler  had  been  horrified,  sickened  by  what  she  re- 
garded as  the  vulgarity  of  the  occurrence.  But  her 
loyalty  to  her  husband  never  wavered. 

Butler  was  one  honest  man  against  a  complete  or- 
ganization of  unscrupulous  ones.  His  disgrace,  im- 
prisonment and  suicide  at  the  White  Cat  had  followed 
in  rapid  succession.  With  his  death,  all  that  was  worth 
while  in  his  wife  died.  Her  health  was  destroyed; 
she  became  one  of  the  wretched  army  of  neurasthenics, 
with  only  one  idea:  to  retaliate,  to  pay  back  in  mea- 
sure full  and  running  over,  her  wrecked  life,  her  dead 
husband,  her  grief  and  her  shame. 

She  laid  her  plans  with  the  caution  and  absolute 
recklessness  of  a  diseased  mentality.  Normally  a 
shrinking,  nervous  woman,  she  became  cold,  passion- 


286    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

less,  deliberate  in  her  revenge.  To  disgrace  Schwartz 
and  Fleming  was  her  original  intention.  But  she  could 
not  get  the  papers. 

She  resorted  to  hounding  Fleming,  meaning  to  drive 
him  to  suicide.  And  she  chose  a  method  that  had  more 
nearly  driven  him  to  madness.  Wherever  he  turned 
he  found  the  figures  eleven  twenty-two  C.  Sometimes 
just  the  number,  without  the  letter.  It  had  been 
Henry  Butler's  cell  number  during  his  imprisonment, 
and  if  they  were  graven  on  his  wife's  soul,  they  burned 
themselves  in  lines  of  fire  on  Fleming's  brain.  For 
over  a  year  she  pursued  this  course — sometimes 
through  the  mail,  at  other  times  in  the  most  unex- 
pected places,  wherever  she  could  bribe  a  messenger  to 
carry  the  paper.  Sane?  No,  hardly  sane,  but  inevi- 
table as  fate. 

The  time  came  when  other  things  went  badly  with 
Fleming,  as  I  had  already  heard  from  Wardrop.  He 
fled  to  the  White  Cat,  and  for  a  week  Ellen  Butler 
hunted  him  vainly.  She  had  decided  to  kill  him,  and 
on  the  night  Margery  Fleming  had  found  the  paper  on 
the  pillow,  she  had  been  in  the  house.  She  was  not 
the  only  intruder  in  the  house  that  night.  Some  one — 
presumably  Fleming  himself — had  been  there  before 
her.  She  found  a  ladies'  desk  broken  open  and  a  small 
drawer  empty.  Evidently  Fleming,  unable  to  draw 
a  check  while  in  hiding,  had  needed  ready  money. 
As  to  the  jewels  that  had  been  disturbed  in  Margery's 
boudoir,  I  could  only  surmise  the  impulse  that,  after 
prompting  him  to  take  them,  had  failed  at  the  sight 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE       287 

of  his  dead  wife's  jewels.  Surprised  by  the  girl's  ap- 
pearance, she  had  crept  to  the  upper  floor  and  con- 
cealed herself  in  an  empty  bedroom.  It  had  been  al- 
most dawn  before  she  got  out.  No  doubt  this  was  the 
room  belonging  to  the  butler,  Carter,  which  Margery 
had  reported  as  locked  that  night. 

She  took  a  key  from  the  door  of  a  side  entrance, 
and  locked  the  door  behind  her  when  she  left.  Within 
a  couple  of  nights  she  had  learned  that  Wardrop 
was  coming  home  from  Plattsburg,  and  she  met  him 
at  Bell  wood.  We  already  knew  the  nature  of  that 
meeting.  She  drove  back  to  town,  half  maddened  by 
her  failure  to  secure  the  letters  that  would  have  cleared 
her  husband's  memory,  but  the  wiser  by  one  thing: 
Wardrop  had  inadvertently  told  her  where  Fleming 
was  hiding. 

The  next  night  she  went  to  the  White  Cat  and  tried 
to  get  in.  She  knew  from  her  husband  of  the  secret 
staircase,  for  many  a  political  meeting  of  the  deepest 
significance  had  been  possible  by  its  use.  But  the  door 
was  locked,  and  she  had  no  key. 

Above  her  the  warehouse  raised  its  empty  height, 
and  it  was  not  long  before  she  decided  to  see  what 
she  could  learn  from  its  upper  windows.  She  went 
in  at  the  gate  and  felt  her  way,  through  the  rain,  to 
the  windows.  At  that  moment  the  gate  opened  sud- 
denly, and  a  man  muttered  something  in  the  darkness. 
The  shock  was  terrible. 

I  had  no  idea,  that  night,  of  what  my  innocent 
stumbling  into  the  warehouse  yard  had  meant  to  a 


288     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

half -crazed  woman  just  beyond  my  range  of  vision. 
After  a  little  she  got  her  courage  again,  and  she 
pried  up  an  unlocked  window. 

The  rest  of  her  progress  must  have  been  much  as 
ours  had  been,  a  few  nights  later.  She  found  a  win- 
dow that  commanded  the  club,  and  with  three  pos- 
sibilities that  she  would  lose,  and  would  see  the  wrong 
room,  she  won  the  fourth.  The  room  lay  directly 
before  her,  distinct  in  every  outline,  with  Fleming 
seated  at  the  table,  facing  her  and  sorting  some 
papers. 

She  rested  her  revolver  on  the  sill  and  took  abso- 
lutely deliberate  aim.  Her  hands  were  cold,  and  she 
even  rubbed  them  together,  to  make  them  steady. 
Then  she  fired,  and  a  crash  of  thunder  at  the  very 
instant  covered  the  sound. 

Fleming  sat  for  a  moment  before  he  swayed  for- 
ward. On  that  instant  she  realized  that  there  was 
some  one  else  in  the  room — a  man  who  took  an  un- 
certain step  or  two  forward  into  view,  threw  up  his 
hands  and  disappeared  as  silently  as  he  had  come.  It 
was  Schwartz.  Then  she  saw  the  door  into  the  hall 
open,  saw  Wardrop  come  slowly  in  and  close  it, 
watched  his  sickening  realization  of  what  had  oc- 
curred; then  a  sudden  panic  seized  her.  Arms 
seemed  to  stretch  out  from  the  darkness  behind  her, 
to  draw  her  into  it.  She  tried  to  get  away,  to  run, 
even  to  scream — then  she  fainted.  It  was  gray 
dawn  when  she  recovered  her  senses  and  got  back 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE       289 

to  the  hotel  room  she  had  taken  under  an  assumed 
name. 

By  night  she  was  quieter.  She  read  the  news  of 
Fleming's  death  in  the  papers,  and  she  gloated  over 
it.  But  there  was  more  to  be  done;  she  was  only 
beginning.  She  meant  to  ruin  Schwartz,  to  kill  his 
credit,  to  fell  him  with  the  club  of  public  disfavor. 
Wardrop  had  told  her  that  her  husband's  letters 
were  with  other  papers  at  the  Monmouth  Avenue 
house,  where  he  could  not  get  them. 

Fleming's  body  was  taken  home  that  day,  Satur- 
day, but  she  had  gone  too  far  to  stop.  She  wanted 
the  papers  before  Lightfoot  could  get  at  them  and 
destroy  the  incriminating  ones.  That  night  she  got 
into  the  Fleming  house,  using  the  key  she  had  taken. 
She  ransacked  the  library,  finding,  not  the  letters  that 
Wardrop  had  said  were  there,  but  others,  equally  or 
more  incriminating,  canceled  notes,  private  accounts, 
that  would  have  ruined  Schwartz  for  ever. 

It  was  then  that  I  saw  the  light  and  went  down- 
stairs. My  unlucky  stumble  gave  her  warning 
enough  to  turn  out  the  light.  For  the  rest,  the  chase 
through  the  back  hall,  the  dining-room  and  the  pantry, 
had  culminated  in  her  escape  up  the  back  stairs,  while 
I  had  fallen  down  the  dumbwaiter  shaft.  She  had 
run  into  Bella  on  the  upper  floor,  Bella,  who  had 
almost  fainted,  and  who  knew  her  and  kept  her  until 
morning,  petting  her  and  soothing  her,  and  finally 
getting  her  into  a  troubled  sleep. 


290    WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

That  day  she  realized  that  she  was  being  fol- 
lowed. When  Edith's  invitation  came  she  accepted 
it  at  once,  for  the  sake  of  losing  herself  and  her 
papers,  until  she  was  ready  to  use  them.  It  had  dis- 
concerted her  to  find  Margery  there,  but  she  managed 
to  get  along.  For  several  days  everything  had  gone 
well :  she  was  getting  stronger  again,  ready  for  the  sec- 
ond act  of  the  play,  prepared  to  blackmail  Schwartz, 
and  then  expose  him.  She  would  have  killed  him 
later,  probably;  she  wanted  her  measure  full  and  run- 
ning over,  and  so  she  would  disgrace  him  first. 

Then — Schwartz  must  have  learned  of  the  loss  of 
the  papers  from  the  Fleming  house,  and  guessed  the 
rest.  She  felt  sure  he  had  known  from  the  first  who 
had  killed  Fleming.  However  that  might  be,  he  had 
had  her  room  entered,  Margery  chloroformed  in  the 
connecting  room,  and  her  papers  were  taken  from 
under  her  pillow  while  she  was  pretending  anaesthesia. 
She  had  followed  the  two  men  through  the  house  and 
out  the  kitchen  door,  where  she  had  fainted  on  the 
grass. 

The  next  night,  when  she  had  retired  early,  leaving 
Margery  and  me  down-stairs,  it  had  been  an  excuse  to 
slip  out  of  the  house.  How  she  found  that  Schwartz 
was  at  the  White  Cat,  how  she  got  through  the  side 
entrance,  we  never  knew.  He  had  burned  the  papers 
before  she  got  there,  and  when  she  tried  to  kill  him, 
he  had  struck  her  hand  aside. 

When  we  were  out  in  the  cheerful  light  of  day 
again,  Burton  turned  his  shrewd,  blue  eyes  on  me. 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE       291 

"Awful  story,  isn't  it?"  he  said.  "Those  are  primi- 
tive emotions,  if  you  like.  Do  you  know,  Knox, 
there  is  only  one  explanation  we  haven't  worked  on 
for  the  rest  of  this  mystery — I  believe  in  my  soul  you 
carried  off  the  old  lady  and  the  Russia  leather  bag 
yourself !" 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

LOVERS  AND  A  LETTER 

A  T  noon  that  day  I  telephoned  to  Margery. 
•*"*•  "Come  up,"  I  said,  "and  bring  the  keys  to  the 
Monmouth  Avenue  house.     I   have  some  things  to 
tell  you,  and — some  things  to  ask  you." 

I  met  her  at  the  station  with  Lady  Gray  and  the 
trap.  My  plans  for  that  afternoon  were  compre- 
hensive; they  included  what  I  hoped  to  be  the  solu- 
tion of  the  Aunt  Jane  mystery;  also,  they  included 
a  little  drive  through  the  park,  and  a — well,  I  shall 
tell  about  that,  all  I  am  going  to  tell,  at  the  proper 
time. 

To  play  propriety,  Edith  met  us  at  the  house.  It 
was  still  closed,  and  even  in  the  short  time  that  had 
elapsed  it  smelled  close  and  musty. 

At  the  door  into  the  drawing-room  I  stopped  them. 

"Now,  this  is  going  to  be  a  sort  of  game,"  I  ex- 
plained. "It's  a  sort  of  button,  button,  who's  got 
the  button,  without  the  button.  We  are  looking  for 
a  drawer,  receptacle  or  closet,  which  shall  contain, 
bunched  together,  and  without  regard  to  whether  they 
should  be  there  or  not,  a  small  revolver,  two  military 
brushes  and  a  clothes  brush,  two  or  three  soft  bosomed 

292 


LOVERS  AND  A  LETTER       293 

shirts,  perhaps  a  half-dozen  collars,  and  a  suit  of 
underwear.  Also  a  small  flat  package  about  eight 
inches  long  and  three  wide." 

"What  in  the  world  are  you  talking  about?"  Edith 
asked. 

"I  am  not  talking,  I  am  theorizing,"  I  explained. 
"I  have  a  theory,  and  according  to  it  the  things  should 
be  here.  If  they  are  not,  it  is  my  misfortune,  not 
my  fault." 

I  think  Margery  caught  my  idea  at  once,  and  as 
Edith  was  ready  for  anything,  we  commenced  the 
search.  Edith  took  the  top  floor,  being  accustomed, 
she  said,  to  finding  unexpected  things  in  the  servants' 
quarters;  Margery  took  the  lower  floor,  and  for  cer- 
tain reasons  I  took  the  second. 

For  ten  minutes  there  was  no  result.  At  the  end 
of  that  time  I  had  finished  two  rooms,  and  com- 
menced on  the  blue  boudoir.  And  here,  on  the  top 
shelf  of  a  three-cornered  Empire  cupboard,  with  glass 
doors  and  spindle  legs,  I  found  what  I  was  looking 
for.  Every  article  was  there.  I  stuffed  a  small  pack- 
age into  my  pocket,  and  called  the  two  girls. 

"The  lost  is  found,"  I  stated  calmly,  when  we  were 
all  together  in  the  library. 

"When  did  you  lose  anything?"  Edith  demanded. 
"Do  you  mean  to  say,  Jack  Knox,  that  you  brought 
us  here  to  help  you  find  a  suit  of  gaudy  pajamas  and 
a  pair  of  military  brushes?" 

"I  brought  you  here  to  find  Aunt  Jane,"  I  said 
soberly,  taking  a  letter  and  the  flat  package  out  of 


294 


my  pocket.  "You  see,  my  theory  worked  out.  Here 
is  Aunt  Jane,  and  there  is  the  money  from  the  Russia 
leather  bag." 

I  laid  the  packet  in  Margery's  lap,  and  without  cere- 
mony opened  the  letter.     It  began: 

*'My  DEAREST  NIECE: 

"I  am  writing  to  you,  because  I  can  not  think  what 
to  say  to  Sister  Letitia.  I  am  running  away !  I — am — 
running — away !  My  dear,  it  scares  me  even  to  write  it, 
all  alone  in  this  empty  house.  I  have  had  a  cup  of  tea 
out  of  one  of  your  lovely  cups,  and  a  nap  on  your  pretty 
couch,  and  just  as  soon  as  it  is  dark  I  am  going  to  take 
the  train  for  Boston.  When  you  get  this,  I  will  be  on 
the  ocean,  the  ocean,  my  dear,  that  I  have  read  about, 
and  dreamed  about,  and  never  seen. 

"I  am  going  to  realize  a  dream  of  forty  years — more 
than  twice  as  long  as  you  have  lived.  Your  dear  mother 
saw  the  continent  before  she  died,  but  the  things  I  have 
wanted  have  always  been  denied  me.  I  have  been  of 
those  that  have  eyes  to  see  and  see  not.  So — I  have  run 
away.  I  am  going  to  London  and  Paris,  and  even  to 
Italy,  if  the  money  your  father  gave  me  for  the  pearls 
will  hold  out.  For  a  year  now  I  have  been  getting  steam- 
ship circulars,  and  I  have  taken  a  little  French  through 
a  correspondence  school.  That  was  why  I  always  made 
you  sing  French  songs,  dearie :  I  wanted  to  learn  the  ac- 
cent. I  think  I  should  do  very  well  if  I  could  only  sing 
my  French  instead  of  speaking  it. 

"I  am  afraid  that  Sister  Letitia  discovered  that  I  had 
taken  some  of  the  pearls.  But — half  of  them  were  mine, 
from  our  mother,  and  although  I  had  wanted  a  pearl 
ring  all  my  life,  I  have  never  had  one.  I  am  going  to 
buy  me  a  hat,  instead  of  a  bonnet,  and  clothes,  and  pretty 


LOVERS  AND  A  LETTER        295 

things  underneath,  and  a  switch ;  Margery,  I  have  wanted 
a  switch  for  thirty  years. 

"I  suppose  Letitia  will  never  want  me  back.  Perhaps 
I  shall  not  want  to  come.  I  tried  to  write  to  her  when  I 
was  leaving,  but  I  had  cut  my  hand  in  the  attic,  where  I 
had  hidden  away  my  clothes,  and  it  bled  on  the  paper. 
I  have  been  worried  since  for  fear  your  Aunt  Letitia 
would  find  the  paper  in  the  basket,  and  be  alarmed  at 
the  stains.  I  wanted  to  leave  things  in  order — please 
tell  Letitia — but  I  was  so  nervous,  and  in  such  a  hurry. 
I  walked  three  miles  to  Wynton  and  took  a  street-car. 
I  just  made  up  my  mind  I  was  going  to  do  it.  I  am  sixty- 
five,  and  it  is  time  I  have  a  chance  to  do  the  things  I  like. 

"I  came  in  on  the  car,  and  came  directly  here.  I  got 
in  with  the  second  key  on  your  key-ring.  Did  you  miss 
it?  And  I  did  the  strangest  thing  at  Bellwood.  I  got 
down  the  stairs  very  quietly  and  out  on  to  the  porch.  I  set 
down  my  empty  traveling  bag — I  was  going  to  buy  every- 
thing new  in  the  city — to  close  the  door  behind  me.  Then 
I  was  sure  I  heard  some  one  at  the  side  of  the  house,  and 
I  picked  it  up  and  ran  down  the  path  in  the  dark. 

"You  can  imagine  my  surprise  when  I  opened  the 
bag  this  morning  to  find  I  had  picked  up  Harry's.  I 
am  emptying  it  and  taking  it  with  me,  for  he  has  mine. 

"If  you  find  this  right  away,  please  don't  tell  Sister 
Letitia  for  a  day  or  two.  You  know  how  firm  your 
Aunt  Letitia  is.  I  shall  send  her  a  present  from  Boston 
to  pacify  her,  and  perhaps  when  I  come  back  in  three  or 
four  months,  she  will  be  over  the  worst. 

"I  am  not  quite  comfortable  about  your  father,  Mar- 
gery. He  is  not  like  himself.  The  last  time  I  saw  him 
he  gave  me  a  little  piece  of  paper  with  a  number  on  it 
and  he  said  they  followed  him  everywhere,  and  were 
driving  him  crazy.  Try  to  have  him  see  a  doctor.  And 
I  left  a  bottle  of  complexion  cream  in  the  little  closet 


296     WINDOW  AT  THE  WHITE  CAT 

over  my  mantel,  where  I  had  hidden  my  hat  and  shoes 
that  I  wore.  Please  destroy  it  before  your  Aunt  Letitia 
sees  it. 

"Good-by,  my  dear  niece.  I  suppose  I  am  growing 
frivolous  in  my  old  age,  but  I  am  going  to  have  silk 
linings  in  my  clothes  before  I  die. 

"YOUR  LOVING  AUNT  JANE." 

When  Margery  stopped  reading,  there  was  an 
amazed  silence.  Then  we  all  three  burst  into  re- 
lieved, uncontrolled  mirth.  The  dear,  little,  old  lady 
with  her  new  independence  and  her  sixty-five-year- 
old,  romantic,  starved  heart! 

Then  we  opened  the  packet,  which  was  a  sadder 
business,  for  it  had  represented  Allan  Fleming's  last 
clutch  at  his  waning  public  credit. 

Edith  ran  to  the  telephone  with  the  news  for  Fred, 
and  for  the  first  time  that  day  Margery  and  I  were 
alone.  She  was  standing  with  one  hand  on  the  library 
table;  in  the  other  she  held  Aunt  Jane's  letter,  half 
tremulous,  wholly  tender.  I  put  my  hand  over  hers, 
on  the  table. 

"Margery!"  I  said.     She  did  not  stir. 

"Margery,  I  want  my  answer,  dear.  I  love  you — 
love  you;  it  isn't  possible  to  tell  you  how  much. 
There  isn't  enough  time  in  all  existence  to  tell  you. 
You  are  mine,  Margery — mine.  You  can't  get  away 
from  that." 

She  turned,  very  slowly,  and  looked  at  me  with  her 
level  eyes.  "Yours!"  she  replied  softly,  and  I  took 
her  in  my  arms. 


LOVERS  AND  A  LETTER       297 

Edith  was  still  at  the  telephone. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  was  saying.  "Just  wa^  until 
I  see." 

As  she  came  toward  the  door,  Margery  squirmed, 
but  I  held  her  tight.  In  the  doorway  Edith  stopped 
and  stared;  then  she  went  swiftly  back  to  the  tele- 
phone. 

"Yes,  dear,"  she  said  sweetly.  "They  are,  this 
minute." 


THE  END 


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